What the river keeps by Cheryl Grey Bostrom 2

You are listening to the audio production of What the River Keeps by Cheryl Gay Bostonramm, published by Tindale House Publishers. This book is read by Carolyn Hwitt for big-hearted bow with more love than continents of longhorns.

"Everything that is hidden will eventually be brought into the open, and every secret will be brought to light." Mark 4:22.

"For our struggle is not against flesh and blood." Ephesians 6:12.

"I will give you back what you lost." Joel 2:25.

"And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free." John 8:32.

Prologue.

Hildy.

Elwa River Valley, Washington State. 1985.

On her 10th birthday, Hildy Nybo was casting a spinner under the Elwa River bridge when a streak of silver broke the surface. She whistled softly and pointed as the fish flicked its tail and disappeared into the pool's shaded depths. Upstream, her father glanced, then threaded a nightcrawler onto the hook's shank.

"I saw him." He raised his brow, aimed the hook toward the river like a dare.

The fingertips working Hildy's reel stalled, and she eyed the water, wrapped. "They hush me, Daddy. Every fish I see."

"I noticed," he said. "Why, you think?"

She gazed into the water, considering. "It's like—like if I'm talking, I'll miss their music. It's like they're all little banjos and somebody's strumming happiness on them."

She didn't notice her dad approach until he palmed her blonde head. Then he lifted his chin toward the forested foothills, their family's fishing resort where the river entered Sapphire Lake.

"Old. Could be you're hearing his riffs."

"Whose riffs?"

"Your banjo strummer, the fish maker, tree maker. Same, same." Dad shrugged, then thrust the tip of his rod toward his workshop like a band conductor's baton. "The music's in heartwood and burls for me, but maybe you'll hear him best through fish."

Hildy bobbed her line to her dad's words, sending concentric circles from the thin filament into the current. Would she? She'd love nothing more.

At bedtime, Hildy mentioned to her mother how she thought she met God through fish.

"That imagination of yours," Mama said. "If you know what's good for you, Hildy Rose, you won't mention that notion to a living soul." Violet fingered Hildy's braid with busy fingers, then crouched to eye level as she tucked the blankets. "Stick to facts, daughter. No more fiction."

"If you spread that godfish story around the playground, Hildy read hopelessness in the wag of her mother's head. She bit her lip, squeezed her eyebrows together. But Dad said, 'He's pretending with you as usual, indulging that fantasy world of yours. You're 10 now, Hildy. Old enough to give it up. You can't live on fairy tales.'"

Violet turned off the bedside lamp, but her voice found Hildy in the dark. "You don't want classmates to shun you again, do you, honey?"

"No, I don't." Hildy curled toward the wall, pulled the blankets to her chin.

"Let her be, Vi." Her dad's voice came from the hall. Seconds later, his hand touched Hildy's shoulder, and she rolled toward him. His lips pressed her forehead before he stroked it. "Those banjos you told me about today. Keep listening, sweetheart. That mind of yours is a gift."

She nodded, closed her eyes against confusion. A gift? She couldn't imagine how her ideas made kids avoid her and worse, made Mama unhappy. Something she didn't want ever. If not for Mama, well, what would she do without her mother telling her which thoughts were right, or what to say or keep secret? This time, Mama knew that if Hildy mentioned God and salmon in the same breath at school, everyone would call her "fish girl," not just a few. Peers would mumble about her more than when she'd brought those trout gills for show-and-tell or wrote that report on the stabilizing properties of dorsal fins.

Even so, warmed by kindness at their next Sunday meeting, Hildy almost, almost told the group that scripture verses reached her heart best when she thought about fish. The Lord on that cross. How better to illustrate than with iridescent salmon returning upstream, dying for their spawn. She raised her hand, nearly bursting with awe over her epiphany, until, from across the circle, her mother caught her eye. Violet pinched her lips and twitched a no. Instantly, a dark form Hildy sometimes saw around their house climbed her mother's back and draped her like a heavy shawl. Hildy dropped her raised hand to her lap and cowered, scarcely breathing, until it slid away.

She had to tell Mama. Outside, while Dad went for the car and her sister talked to friends, Hildy whispered to her. Her mother crouched, nose to nose. "Stop, Hildy. I mean it. Make-believe is one thing when you're little, but at 10. 10. One more whacked word to anyone about that creepy shadow, and I'll—" Dad pulled the car to the curb so Mama didn't finish, but Hildy saw her eyes.

On the ride home, the girl made two vows. First, she would never again mention this thing no one else could see. Second, she would keep the fish maker to herself, too.

Chapter 1.

Hildy underground, Seattle, 1999.

Even if not wedged under her bed, Hildy wouldn't have answered the door. Instead, she shrank as the clapper struck the metal bell outside her basement apartment. One clang, two, loud enough to alert the two close residents of her Seattle neighborhood that someone stood in the concrete well at the foot of her stairs, bugging her again.

Mouselike, she peeked from beneath the bed rail, studying the window well closest to the door. Unlikely whoever was ringing would crouch and peer through the slatted blinds, but one never knew. Something thunked the door. Footsteps scuffed a quick ascent. A truck rumbled and departed. UPS. Why couldn't they deliver a package without ringing? They had to know she wouldn't answer. She never answered. Bad enough that she lived smack in the sightline of all those houses, their windows full of eyes. But a knock or ring at her door—a trespass.

She exhaled and wiggled deeper into the cramped space where she extracted her latest stone from a row of rocks beneath her headboard. The diameter of a driveway cobble, its size matched hundreds more crowding the space under her sofa and along her baseboards. Pebbles, both polished and rough, overflowed from galvanized buckets in three corners of her living space. Large or small, she'd assigned a number and a memory to each. She smiled at this new one. River-smoothed, CH-formed in the magic concoction of silica and sediment and time. When this stone had called to her from shore, she'd answered, tucked it in her pack, and returned to Count Coomalt, heading to sea.

Squirming free of the narrow slot, she opened her bedside notebook, confirmed the rock's black Sharpie ID on its underside, and jotted more details about the day she found it. Then she squinted into the empty stairwell through the door's wide-angle peephole, and slid the chain from its lock. She towed the package inside, relocked the deadbolt and chain, and opened a small box of bagged powders. Grit for the tumbler. Butterness threw a tilted blind, lit the cage on the table, where a canary chirped, cocked his head, and flapped to a higher perch. Hildy bent to the thin metal bars and pursed him a squeaky kiss as an older diary entry came to her, recorded on a brilliant afternoon the previous May. She lingered over favorite details, how she'd spotted the bird from the aviary's newest batch of fledglings, his bright yellow body, black crown, and wings indistinguishable from the plumage of a native willow goldfinch; how she'd told herself he was marked to be free, then had brought him home. Butter Ness eyed her, dropped to his cage floor, and pecked stray seeds.

She carried the open box to her cluttered table, and brushed aside a robin's nest to make room. A tag protruding from the nest prompted her, and she pulled a different notebook, found the nest's number, and read the corresponding entry. Thursday, October 22nd, 1998. 3 p.m. Scattered clouds, no rain. Eating PB&J left UW Fisheries building for car in South Lot past Crimson Sunset Maple. Tree 70% denuded after 30 mph morning wind. Exposed American robin's nest within reach. She'd loosened the empty nest from a crotch in that maple and brought it here to the table exactly 5 months after she'd chosen her bird. She nodded, reviewing other hours that day recorded before and after this entry. She remembered them all.

In the bathroom, she snipped open a small packet from the UPS box and scooped a tablespoon of gray grit into a pitcher-sized rubber barrel filled with small stones, 21 of them, from her 3-week stint on the Nisqually River. She spritzed the rocks and grit with water from a spray bottle, seated the pliable barrel and its lid in the rock tumbler's metal frame, checked the screws anchoring the polisher to a plywood base, and plugged it in. The motor hummed, the platform vibrated. Butterness, his throat feathers fluffed and trembling, sang accompaniment. She swayed to his rolling trills and bursts, imbibing their froth like a dessert. When he finished, she plucked a piece of Roma from the fridge, rinsed, and clipped it to the cage. The canary sidled toward the leaf and nibbled ruffles into the edge. "My little singer," Hildy said, then squeaked him another chirpy kiss. She jotted bird and song and lettuce into her notebook before she spat on a dried sauce drip on the tiled floor and rubbed it with a stockinged toe. She closed the book and grinned. "I won't write that," she said. "She could, though, and no one would know."

With the exception of her sister Tess, for the last two of her five years in this apartment, she had allowed no one inside, choosing instead to live alone below the small, hip-roofed main floor, where silver-haired Mrs. Craft padded softly, and evenings played her harp. Hildy poked rent checks through the slot in the old woman's door, and made no requests. In return, Mrs. Craft, equally reclusive, never rang Hildy's bell. But what if she did ring it someday? Hildy appraised her living quarters as Mrs. Craft might. The woman's eyes would first land on beautiful Butter Ness piping from his cage. If the woman were to come on a day like today, she'd likely watch the bird bathe in a slant of sunlight wending through a narrow south well. She'd surely appreciate Hildy's handcrafted bed and desk, too, there under the west window where Hildy could see sky above the well's concrete lip whenever she looked up. Uggh. Hands at her nape, Hildy wadded her waist-length hair, blonde and kinked from the braid she only unleashed here in her sanctuary where no one could see.

"Who am I kidding? If Mrs. Craft responded to the shelves and ledges and walls and floor like Tess did, the old woman would probably evict her." On Tessa's recent spring visit from CEQ, she'd eyed Hildy's rocks and garage sale finds, then plucked a spiral-bound notebook from dozens on a long shelf. She frowned at an entry. "Stop it, Tessy." Hildy snatched the book, re-wedged it into the sequence of diaries. Tess balled her fists. "Do you need to write everything down?" Hildy covered her ears, her mood gone to iron. "You know I do. You can burn them when I die, but don't try to stop me."

"Fine, fine. But all this stuff." Frustration rode Tessa's sigh. "Where did my sweet, funny sister go? Why are you living like this?"

"Like what?"

"Come on, Hildy. This amped-up hermit thing. All this junk. It's like a yard sale on steroids in here." She batted Hildy's undergrad honor cords and the UW master's hood hanging between a child's fishing pole and a kazoo. "No, it's a doggone museum. Ever since your boyfriend—"

"He has nothing to do with it." She'd only begun adding physical specimens to her diary's detailed accounts two November ago, long months after she and Cole split. He was the least of her worries.

"Well, something or somebody does." Hild's anxiety surged. Tess's reaction clinched her growing resolve to refuse her sister's visits, too. If Tess, who had grown up with her, for heaven's sake, couldn't grasp why she needed her records and keepsakes to jog her memory and keep her reality accurate, how could anyone else?

Only at work could she leave all that behind—at hatcheries or on Pacific Northwest rivers when the wonder of fish eclipsed everything dark. Though Hildy had spotted the old man in his yard on her undergrad visits to the Piper Creek whed on the day she actually met him. She was wading a tributary of the Seattle stream, clipping DNA samples from spawned-out salmon. He stood on the low bank, his bunchgrass hair sparse and white, his shotgun a seesaw plank over one arm. She blushed and straightened, sputtered about the fish count, stream health. He listened, nodding, then asked her name, frowned at her reply. "Every time you come around, I swear you're my D." He said, "My girl, come home. 30 years younger." He daughtered 10 ft up trail toward his yard before he turned back to her. "Can I show you?"

From mid-stream, Hild eyed the man and the neglected bungalow 30 ft past him, considered the gun. The man chuckled, tapped the weapon's carved stock. "Aw, don't mind this old relic." He jerked his chin toward a run-down trailer park next door. "I bark at the dopers when they sneak over here, but I don't bite." Relic? The gun or him? He leaned the weapon against a tree. "Ain't loaded anyway. No need. One look at these double barrels and them miscreants hightail it back to their tuna cans."

Creek water curled around her boots. She locked her knees. Didn't move. He looked at her curiously, then held a finger aloft. "Forgetting my manners." He tapped his chest and shuffled sideways. "Name's Everett. You wait. I'll get my pictures."

Wearing loneliness, she thought, then waited to shore, stood on tiptoes, and peeked over the cutbank after him. Inside a mullioned window, he pulled a book from a shelf. Hildy climbed the slope as he carried the album to a pair of lawn chairs and wiped the seats with his sleeve. "You have time to sit?" he asked. She surprised herself by sitting. He flipped pages and tapped snapshots of two girls, as blonde and slight as she was. "Both gone east," he said. "Both grandmothers now." He pointed at the taller of the two teens straddling a log at a lake somewhere. "My D in the Carolinas for 30 years now. Wesville, great Smokies with a raft of kids and grandchildren. Says she'll drag me out there if she has to." The girl looked more like Hildy's sister than Tess ever could.

"Think you'll go?" Everett rocked, his gaze on the photo. "Feels good to be wanted like that. Never mattered to me before my Margaret passed last year. D's fixed up a little apartment for me in an old chicken coop. At first, I balked. Get it?" At the pun, his grin framed cracked brown teeth. Her mouth bent like a canoe. "Looks right. Nice inside, though. Last month, she sent me pictures and a ticket to Asheville."

Hildy scanned his treed, unkempt yard, the weary home. She could practically hear the house crying to her. "You want to rent? Better than leaving it empty." His eyes narrowed, traced her face. "Took me two dates to know my Margaret was the one. Got that good sort of feeling about you, too, Miss Hildy. The way you nurse that creek, talk to those fish and birds. I'd be glad to know you're here tending. You can send the checks to my D for putting up with me."

A month later, she took Everett to the airport, installed a driveway gate, and moved from her basement apartment on Seattle's Capitol Hill to the 900 sq ft bungalow. Despite her protests, Tess made the 4-hour drive from Seeu to see the place. "You're nuts," she said after she assessed the run-down yard and dilapidated trailers next door. The house's stuffed, decrepit rooms. But Hildy loved the place. Filtered by trees, east and south light streamed through ageworn wooden windows, brightening worn plank floors and shiplap ceilings like those in their cabins back home. Here she had an extra bedroom and storage and salmon in the creek swimming right past all those messy trailers to spawn in her backyard tributary. Her own paradise at the end of the road.

Even before the trailer park sold, she cleaned flower beds. And while the developers bulldozed and smoothed the vacated land next door, she replaced the bungalow's rotted boards and painted everything. Tapping into years of working alongside her dad at their family's lakefront fishing resort before builders framed the first house on that old trailer ground. She screened the property line with laurel and cedars, red-oaked dogwoods and firs, and she tended them with fertilizer and care. One at a time and in the order of their acquisition, she placed her numbered stones around her gardens. When she finished, the transformed cottage crouched hidden on a soft fescue lawn in a creekside haven where, as before, she lived alone.

"By necessity," she reasoned. No one could begin to understand that keeping her records and memorizing her days demanded her full concentration and every square inch on her walls. For more than 10 years, she gathered deliveries from the coded box beside the gate only she passed through, filled her diaries with detailed accounts of her activities, and her rooms with momentos linked to those entries. As she worked the gamut of regional rivers and taught about them, she interacted with her colleagues and students and family only when required, living only for aging Butterness and for fish and their watery world. Until on February 23rd, 2010, her ring tone chimed from one of the few numbers she chose to answer.

Chapter 2.

Hildy phone, Seattle, 2010.

Hildy's phone sounded as she riffled through mail at her locked gate. She turned away from the feeble sun, read the screen, and answered Everett's daughter on the second ring.

"How y'all doing, Miss Hildy?" Seattle-born D's voice turned Carolina Southern by her years away.

"Hey, D." Hildy tucked the mail under her arm, curious. "Another rent in Greece?"

"Mournful. Sorry news for you, darling. You got a wall to lean on?"

"I'm at the mailbox. Here, I'll sit." Hildy lowered herself to a porch step. The phone pressed to her ear. "What kind of—"

"Sorry. We lost our daddy. Found him in my garden, stone cold dead a week ago Monday. His hand full of curly kale."

Hildy clicked to speak her, set the phone on the stair, leaned her head to her hands. "I'm so sorry, D. So sorry."

"Yeah, well, we're all counting our blessings here. You being among them. If not for you, he'd have never moved here. A 10-year bonus of loving him up. You gave us that, Miss Hildy."

Hildy's eyes roved her secluded winter grounds. The frosty lawn, the skeletal dormant alders and maples, the dark, heavy-bowed conifers along the softspoken creek that lulled her to sleep at night. "More than a fair trade, D, this place."

"Yeah, darling. Uh, uh, about that." D's stammer surprised her. "After the funeral, we had a little business meeting with the powers that be, and majority rules, you know. And the majority of daddy's heirs want to sell your place before this droopy housing market crashes like an old drunk. That little acreage you're sitting on is development property, you know."

Oh, Hildy knew all too well. The property's value had outrun her qualifications to buy the home years prior. "I see." Nervously, her deaf fingers removed bobby pins and uncoiled her braid. "How long until you want me out?"

"No hurry, darling. We'd like to list it come May, after the market wakes up from its winter snooze out there, if it rouses at all this year."

An hour after D's call, Hildy plucked an empty soda can from the creek and re-entered the house. Where would she ever find a place like this in Seattle's sprawl? If she wanted to maintain her positions as both adjunct professor and U.S. Geological Survey biologist, she'd have to live within commuting distance of the University of Washington School of Aquatic and Fishery Sciences and her USGS office at the Western Fisheries Research Center. But how? A rental as private as this one, between Lake Washington and the U—rare as gold in a gutter.

"We'll be sardines again, Butter Ness, trapped in a little box." Pensive, she studied the bird. "I guess you already are here, baby." She secured the doors, closed the window blinds against collisions with glass, and opened the bird's cage. The canary lit at the opening, cheeped, and flew a swaggy path to a floor lamp finial, a window ledge, a bucket of rocks. While Hildy stood at the counter, the bird hopped flat-footed on the table, and pecked at spilled millet, a hummingbird's nest, pine cones, feathers, and pebbles. Fluttering into the forest of hangings, hooked and nailed and pinned to Hildy's walls, he perched on an antique ad near the ceiling and sang.

Later, she refilled his seed, freshened his water. He watched her from the cuff of a logger's caulk boot hanging from a peg, and when she set a slice of apple on his cage floor, he flitted to it through his open door. "We'll figure this out, little bird." She was latching him safely inside when her phone rang again. Her sister Tess.

"45° Hildy, pouring rain. Violet's in a ratty nightgown on her knees, paddling that old skiff with one arm as if it were a kayak. You're at the resort now?" Hildy struggled to hear past wind on the other end. "Third time this month. I'm on her porch looking right at her. I yelled, but she's ignoring me. What am I supposed to do? Lasso her?"

Hildy sighed. Their confused, bedridden mother tooling around on Lake Old Reservoir as if it were summer. "Whistle to her. Tell her she's cold and wet. Say you have hot chocolate. She'll come in."

"We can't leave her alone anymore, Hildy. I called Dave Cloud."

"You called Dave Cloud?" A slow burn spread to Hildy's ears. "You know, at the lower Elwa tribe." He said, "I know Dave Cloud. Since when is my job your business? A fish whiz like you? You could work there in a heartbeat. Besides, I need you. Mom needs you. I can't just quit my—"

"Look, sister. Unlike me, you're single. You're childless. You rent." Dave said that the NOAA, USGS, and half a dozen other agencies are sending teams up the river to count those fish and to document habitat before the wrecking ball smashes the first dam next year. They'll use excavators, tests, hydraulic hammers, whatever he's hiring. Don't you want a front-row seat when those dams come down? When those salmon start snooping around their old spawning grounds? One more summer before our lakes drained and gone. Don't you want to be here? Be there on the Elwa."

At the jump in her chest, Hildy pressed two fingers to her carotid artery. "Where's Mom now?"

"Lying over the stern, paddling with her hands."

"Tessy, get her inside before she goes hypothermic. I can't keep doing this. Hildy driving here not knowing what I'll find. Not like I could just drop everything and skip in from Seeu. You know my man. Soon as March 10th hits, Bing will be chasing blackmouths, and I'll be up to my elbows in winter chinooks and slushed fishermen. We have 11 groups booked in the next six weeks, sister of mine. 11. I can't ask June and Otis to look after Mom every second."

"He'll decide." Steamroller Tess arguing was pointless. "I know. See if she'll come home with you until I can get there in a straight jacket, maybe. But I can't. Just until Friday. 3 days. If I leave work early, I should get to the resort by 1:30. Is Otis working the store this weekend?"

"Yeah, but meet me Friday. 1:30 at the store."

If you— Friday, Hildy donned her parka and slipped the phone into a pocket. Last time, Tess had railed on for 20 minutes before she came up for air. Hild debuckled her waist and stepped outside, where she scuffed a muddy stripe along her rutted driveway, then bent to pluck a piece of granite, sharp, black-specked. A hemlock cone drew her too, small and waterlogged. She added her finds to two nut-sized stones already inside her pack, jasper, agate, both rough.

Dusk was settling when Hildy hung her coat on a hook, emptied her pack, and carefully arranged the new stones like boats on wavy burls in the walnut desk her dad had crafted and buffed. Four more stones, in addition to yesterday's quartz, and Monday's muddy carnelian. She had rinsed the red rock clean until its color soothed her. Looked like candy. With a paper towel she squeezed moisture from the tiny cone, then sat at her table and held it to the bars of her canary's cage. "For our little scampers, Butterness. Think she'll like it?" The bird raised feathers at his crown, and hopped to a higher perch. She swept bird seed the canary had strewn on the table into her palm, opened a kitchen cupboard, and settled the seed and cone in a pile beside a fluffy nest of grasses, moss, and shredded napkins. At a gap in the cupboard's rear panel, mouse whiskers twitched toward hairless rodent pups.

For the third time that day, her buzzing phone lit. Annoyed, Hildy closed the cupboard and checked the screen. Dave Cloud calling me. She liked the man. Truly, she did. And she'd enjoyed shadowing the biologist during her internship on the Elwa River early in her training. But for him to reach out to her now—what had Tess told him? She considered voicemail, but her thumb refused.

"Nibbo here. Hildy."

"Hildy. Too long, old friend." The voice she remembered warmed her. "Hey Dave, we've got teams arriving every week now from every agency you can name. Your old backyard's about to host the most spectacular renewal in U.S. River history. Ever think of coming back for it?"

"Not really."

"A relative term, really. Of course, she'd thought about it. She'd drooled over the prospect of working that river again. But how could she risk it? Yeah, I imagine you're pretty dug in over there. I heard they fast-tracked you into a lead spot at the research center after you published in Science. Pretty impressive rise to stardom. You're what, 35?"

"34." Anybody but Dave and she'd have fled the accolades, hung up. She hadn't achieved to be flattered or recognized. "I love the work, Dave, the fish. You've known that forever."

"And you love our Olympic National Park and our trapped Elwa. I can still hear you upriver midstream in your waders talking about those stalled plans to set the river free. And if I dare say so, I recall you hate the city." He remembered things. Remembered her? He couldn't see her smile.

"Right on all counts, Dave. So, maybe you'll consider coming home. I'm looking for a seasoned biologist, and you're my first choice, Hildy. Hands down. A staff position, not a grant temp. So, you can see this thing all the way through. You'd be lead project biologist for the Lower Elwa Clum Tribe. For the next year and a half, we'll gather final baseline data for the entire river's ecosystem while it's still being strangled by those dams. Got some great teams coming in to track fish and river health through the dismantling. Have you crossed paths with Bryce Dixon from NOAA? Liz Niro at the UW?"

"I've worked with Liz. Met Bryce at the World Fisheries Congress where he wouldn't leave me alone. Top-drawer scientists, both of them. Dennis Hopson will be here from Fish and Wildlife, too." She liked Dennis. Kind, smart, quiet.

Dave paused. Hildy waited. "You still with me?" he said.

"I'm listening."

"Good."

"No."

"Great. If you stick around after the reservoirs go, I'll have you coordinate the revegetation work. You can help oversee multi-agency teams working on fish recovery, too. Create a model for other rivers slated for parole. I can already see more of your fabulous papers spreading the news."

"I don't get it, Dave. You've waited most of your career for this, and those are your jobs. Now you're bowing out."

"I want to share them with you, Hildy. Share them." She heard him tap his keyboard, multitasking as usual. "I'll be 67 in October. I've bumped my retirement until the first dam's gone, but Linda's not doing well. We'd like to travel a little while she still can see the grandkids in New Mexico." She'd heard Parkinson's.

"Sorry about your wife." He was pouring water now. Fixing coffee, probably. Yeah. He cleared his throat.

"The job sounds like a plum, Dave. But just think about it, will you? As long as you tell me either way by the 1st of March. Okay. Get yourself a plan B, though. I'm not guaranteeing anything. I'll email you the official job specs. And if you happen to be in town, stop by the reservation. I've got a raft of data in my office that'll get your blood pumping. Our river is going to be beautiful, Hildy. Magnificent. Soon as they pull her tourniquets."

She listened soberly. Magnificent or not, she'd have to return to the peninsula, live there again to see it. "I'll be in touch." Hildy croaked a goodbye through her tightening throat, slipped outside, and sat shoeless on her icy stoop until stars emerged and her pulse slowed.

Dave's call was timely, at any rate. She pictured herself and Butterness, kicked from Everett's bungalow to a curb with no prospects for a decent permanent address. Another urban apartment would strangle her. She knew she was qualified for the position he offered, despite the rumblings about her. 10 years post-masters, she'd leapfrogged older, more credentialed candidates for her Seattle teaching and research positions, skipping steps, some thought, not paying her dues. Colleagues would likely contest her assignment to a pivotal role in the largest river restoration in U.S. history. A river that ran past the Elwa fishing resort and spilled into Lakewell at cabin 7, where Violet had delivered Hildy into the midwife's waiting hands—a river she'd spent her childhood exploring.

If she took the job, she'd have to return to her heartbreak's ground zero for more than a visit. To the birthplace of her great sadness and her fears, where shadows ran amok, to Port Angeles, and maybe to stay at the resort itself, where she'd lost her father and almost lost her mind. If not for college and her cramped apartment, well, despite their constraints, those locations in a decade here in Everett's bungalow had saved her. Nowhere in Seattle had her belongings disappeared. Her eyes swept the yard. Out here and inside the front door behind her, all her keepsakes remained exactly where she put them. The bungalow's rooms and her diaries held records of every single day since her freshman year at the UW with nothing forgotten, nothing lost. Only after leaving the Olympic Peninsula had she begun to compensate for her forgetfulness in earnest—to believe that maybe, just maybe, her mind wouldn't always betray her, as Violet had put it, with amnesia or conjured memories. Hard-won that progress. A return to the Elwa could risk it all. If she did go home, would her mental faculties cooperate? Could she keep track of things? Maybe if she hedged her bets and brought everything from this place to her new one. Once there, she'd have to maintain and guard her inventory, each imported piece of bull work against those earlier losses. Losses that plagued her still.

Chill penetrated her socks when she left the porch. Mid-lawn, she buffed her upper arms against the cold and studied her sleeping yard. Moonlight washed the meandering path, the curved flower beds and rectangular garden, and the softball-sized rocks, them like a necklace. She assessed them with satisfaction. So many rocks. Too many to take. Best to leave these outdoor stones gathered from every river she'd visited since her basement studio days. Remarkable rocks exactly where she'd situated them, with every stone accounted for and mossed soft with the green beauty she considered proof of their permanence.

Chapter 3.

Hildy meeting Olympic Peninsula, 2010.

On an outside deck, Hildy braced against February wind as the MV Spokane pulled away from the Edmonds Ferry Terminal and crossed Puget Sound's heavy chop. Through a brief strip of open sky, rocky peaks bunched over the Olympic Peninsula like a fleet. Their snowy crags like sun-dazzled sails above a sea of low-running clouds. Her memory ran the steep terrain of the peninsula's dense forests and mountainous untamed interior, its weather unpredictable and dark-tempered. "This place will swallow me," she thought, "like it did, Dad." Shivering, she tracked the ship's arc toward the Kingston Landing. Then she retreated inside for coffee, returned to her car on the dank bottom deck, and slouched in her driver's seat until the dock ramp clanked to the deck.

When the ship spit her to shore, she sped toward the sunny, dungeonous valley, where she stopped in the little town of Sequim for a sandwich, and to gather her thoughts and resolve. The bright respite was brief; another 17 mi west, and she passed through the larger town of Port Angeles, where the sky had clotted to pewter. 7 mi more, and charcoal clouds roiled. She fought to breathe. At the Lakewell overlook, she climbed from her SUV, raised arms into the wind, and filled and refilled her lungs until she calmed. She squinted into the churning sky, then scanned the steely water below. Peekaboo views of waterfront cabins told her the rustic campground and square dance hall, the dinghies and gas pumps and store still hid in the treed foothills along the shore, their firs gone somber in the winter merc. In one of those buildings was her mother, monitored by Tess. She hoped June would be working the noon crowd at the store's lunch counter, flipping burgers if anyone showed on this bone-chilling day. It had once been Violet's job before dementia had crept like a weasel into her brain, stealing eggs of memory, reason, and the wherewithal to tie her shoes.

Rain spattered her. Hildy exhaled, swiped away drops, and returned to her Yukon, where she braced for her descent into the valley. Her fingers itched to write to protect her mind with records of her every move. Moments later, she dug in her bag for a notebook and pen.

12:55 p.m. Pulled into Elwa overlook in a squall. Drove 45 mph downhill to the curve. Stopped beside Tessa's Suburban at store. Saw Otis leaning on red truck at gas pumps. Left car running, heater on high for Butterness.

"Welcome home, Missy." They're waiting for you. Otis pushed himself from the woods-slatted sides of a pickup's bed and arched his back. "Hey, Otis." Only eight months since she'd seen him, but his pain had clearly grown worse. The handyman pulled a gas nozzle from the truck and flipped the rusty pump's lever. He took cash from the driver and waved her inside with a gnarled hand. She paused at the door. "You joining us?" Violet's best move, hiring him and June after Hildy's dad disappeared. Back then, he'd been an immediate ground peg for the flapping tent of her. Not 10 years older than her mother, but an instant grandfather. "Nah, you girls chalk. I'll tune an ear from the cooler." She returned to the man's smile and slipped into the store.

The door's jangle alerted Tess, who lumbered toward her between the shelves, bumping toilet paper and Doritos. The corners of her sister's mouth drooped into jowls as she wrapped Hildy in heavy arms and squeezed. "She's bad, Hildy. Real bad." Hildy scanned the little market and lunch counter, then peered past a folded accordion door to private quarters in the back of the store. Otis and June's space now. "Where is she?"

"Taking a nap in her cabin. I made sure she was asleep before I left her, but no telling how long she'll stay down. Wakes up and roams every couple of hours. All day, all night long." Tess rubbed her eyes. "I swear I'm newborn-baby tired. We'd better talk before she gets up and before I crash for a snooze myself."

Hildy spun a standing rack of fishing lures. No question her sister was weary. "Can't the doctor give her something?"

Tess wagged her head. "Not that easy. She thought I heard you, Missy." Hildy brightened as a short, weathered woman emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands. June rounded the lunch counter, tossed the towel over a plaid cotton shoulder, and cupped Hildy's cheeks. "Smooth trip over?"

Hildy nodded and leaned into her. "My Juny." The sight of the woman roused images she'd tried to forget, of returning home from a school trip at age 16, not to her mother or father, but to June from their tiny church—to Juny who had taken Hildy's face in her hands then too, only that time to tell her that her beloved dad was missing, and while bereft Violet took to her bed and others roamed the back country searching, she had fed Hildy food more substantial than grief. Straight-armed June held Hildy's shoulders, absorbing her as if she were sunshine. "I've missed you, sweets. Near killed me to rush away last summer, but leave it to our independent and Lisa to have that baby on July 4th. If you hadn't helped Otis, she gave Hildy's biceps a quick squeeze. With your mama under the weather and all those campers, he couldn't have managed."

"Happy to, Juny. You know that." The towel fell from June's shoulder. "Guessing it's hard for you to come back so soon, girl, but it's good you're here while we sort this out." Her voice was gruff, a remnant of her smoking days. "We need someone around here who knows fish, seeing how your mom is trying to be one herself. She goes finning on her belly the second we're not looking. I think she's forgetting what oars are." She glanced at the back door. "Can you stay?"

Hildy shrugged and picked up the cloth. "Why don't you girls move her into the store with us? Our kids are only here once a year, and their sprouts prefer their sleeping bags and cabins more than their granny's fussy sheets and clean floors and front door jangling morning to night."

Hildy shook her head. "No, Juny. No. Vi can have my sewing room upstairs. We'll leave our bedroom door open. If she comes padding down in the night, we'll hear her us sleeping like feathers nowadays. I can keep her busy around here."

Tessa's lips rattled and exhaled. "She's a slippery one, and you know it, June. You've got enough to do without chasing her. Besides all that rowing, she's strong as a moose. What do you do the first time she bucks you?"

Hild fingered a pack of elkhair caddis. Once fishermen discovered the brand, her dad had ordered the flies in bulk. "She's right, June. Mom would be a full-time job for both you and Otis. Already is." Hild's next words roped her, and the concession in them crushed her voice to a quiet the others craned to hear. "I can watch her for now. I took some vacation days, staying until we figure something out for her. Find someone. Assemble a team or something."

Tess plucked a Nutty Buddy from the freezer, peeled the wrapper, and bit. Peanut crumbles bopped from pendulous breasts to a thick roll at her midsection. "The cost of help. How, Hildy. She's only 60, no Medicare for years yet, and she burned through Dad's life insurance years ago. Otis talked her into a long-term care policy."

At the sound of his name, the man looked up from a crate of bottled water. His arthritis-racked spine a crooked S. Hildy smiled at him gratefully. "Mom's concussion history. Those headaches." He thought it was she qualified.

Hildy nodded. "Yeah, four years ago. Passed the exam without a hitch back then. No way she's stayed current on those premiums." Tess caught a drip with her tongue. "Even early in this mess, she could hardly buy groceries. Her desk is a boar's nest. I dug through it, but never saw a single bill for a policy like that."

Hildy looked away. "Mom named me as a contact, so the company wrote me before it lapsed. I've covered the payment the last two years." Tess lunged into a one-armed hug, the cone suspended. Hildy didn't say that the money was less for their mother than for herself. The prospect of ever caring for Violet sank her, made her quiver, and now here she was.

Otis stowed logger in the cooler. "Good thing you did, Helyy girl. Your mom was losing it fast. Last week I called to her from cabin 5, and she looked at me like I was from Mars. 'Hey, Violet,' I says. 'Violet?' she says, like she doesn't know her own name."

As if on cue, the cowbell hanging from the back door clanked, and their mother entered, disheveled from sleep. "Here, Mom." Tess rounded a shelf of sundries, intercepted Violet at the apartment pass-through, and straightened the woman's crumpled dress. "A rear bell now, too," Hildy thought under her breath. "She always walks right in."

June leaned to Hildy's ear. "Pops in every couple hours or so. Forgets she doesn't still live here." Violet stood at the pass-through, her eyes darting. June crossed her and took her hand. "Hello, dear. Want a cup of tea?" Her mother shuffled to a cupboard for two mugs and fiddled with dials on the stove. June filled the kettle and redirected her. "Sit, Vi, I've got it." Violet fumbled to a chair, bent to her untied laces.

Behind her, June whispered, "I unplugged her stove this morning. Burner was red as a poker with nothing on it, and she was sitting on her porch in that wintry blast not 10 minutes after Tess left for supplies. No coat, door wide open as if it was May."

In the store, Otis closed the cooler and flattened empty boxes. "I'll leave you ladies to your sipping," he called. He zipped his jacket, caught June's blown kiss, and hauled the cardboard to a green utility vehicle outside. The women turned their attention to Violet, whose eyes now lit with recognition. "Well, well, my Hildy Rose! Tea for her, too, June Bug. I made snickerdoodles just this morning, your favorite." She stood, stretched an arm toward Hildy, and bumped thick fingers along her braid. "We used to call that a milkmaid braid against your fair skin. So pretty, my pretty girl."

Tess shot Hildy a look. "Mom."

Hildy stepped to the oval mirror behind the table and checked the plate where her mother had touched it. Wrapping her head like a crown, the white-gold braid held tight to Hildy's relief. "My angel," Violet beamed at her younger daughter.

"There are two of us, mother." Hildy scrambled for distraction. "Those cookies, Mom. Where?" June banked her head toward a sealed package of ginger snaps on the counter. Hildy eased to her feet and pulled scissors from a wooden block. Her cheeks burned. Nothing new. Her mother's selective attention, but still. "Well, these look tasty. Thanks, Mom." Her hands low over the plastic. Hildy snipped, extracted, then plated the wafers as if fresh from the oven. Violet dunked a cookie in tea and bit, oblivious. Talked with her mouth full, her fat white teeth speckled with crumbs. "How long can you stay? I made up your bed. Those flannel sheets you like." As if expecting me. As if everything were all right.

Tess raised her brows, her mouth crooked. "Hild?"

Hildy nodded, eyes on her sister, then on June, who lifted and lowered her shoulders. "Oh, a few days," Hildy said. "I have some people to see over at that new hatchery. For when they dropped the dams."

"The dams? Oh, yes." Violet licked a finger, pressed it to cookie bits on the table. "That'll be years yet, though."

"No, Mom." Tess's voice swelled. "Next year, 2011. After next year, no more dams, no lakes, no more resort or rowing."

Violet tossed her head, and a frosty hair flew into a shoulder-length cloud. Crepe arms peaked from the bell sleeves of her paisley muslin shift. A California hippie dress too summery for this day and faded now. 6 months into grad school, Hildy had splurged on it for Mom's birthday. "Oh, fooy. They've been threatening to blow up those dams since you girls were little."

"Not just threatening, Mom. They have plans soon." Tess thumped her mug on the wood. "They're about to pull the plug on your La La Land."

June raised her hand. "Not worth it, Tessy. Your blood pressure."

Tess cracked her knuckles. "I got to go."

June tapped the cookie plate. "Here, girls." Violet took another and dunked it beside the abandoned one floating in her cup. Tess stood and checked her watch, frowned at her mother, and turned to Hildy. "Call me."

Hildy followed her sister outside. Tess propped a foot on her rig's running board. "Mom drives me, Hildy. The store's door shuddered in Violet's wake. 'You're not leaving, are you, honey?'"

"Go easy on her, Tess." Hild's throat constricted, and she swallowed hard. "You'll see what she's doing."

"Call me," Tess said again.

Chapter 4.

Hildy. Laundry.

Hildy turned to Violet as Tessa's rig rolled onto the deserted highway toward Tiny Sequim and her sister's other life an hour west. Wind flapped Violet's hair behind her like a flag and pressed the muslin dress into her curves. "Come on, Mama. Let's get you home." Hildy hooked her arm in Violet's, blinked into the storm, then steered her mother past the gas pumps. Violet lunged ahead to the last in a row of weathered cabins. "Hold tight, Mom. Got to get my stuff." Her mother gripped the jamb while Hildy sprinted to her vehicle, backed to the cabin's door and opened the hatch to her canary's cage, its quilted cover snapped tight against drafts. "Back in a jiff, little guy." She grabbed her small suitcase, closed the car, and stepped past her mother into the tidy living room.

Her lungs tightened at the sight of familiar furnishings crafted by her father, and to her surprise, still lustrous: the live-edge table and four chairs from that big-leaf maple across the river, the wooden arms of the tan coarse-weave love seat and the rocking chair beside it shaped from alder in her dad's shop. She noticed furry nubs and a vase of willow catkins on the table. willows fresh cut like those she used to pet in the small corner kitchen. The compact fridge, three-burner stove, enamel sink, and stacked washer and dryer gleamed white. Uncluttered counters shone clean below open shelves of glassware, cereal bowls, and mugs, their handles all aimed left. Four of everything, straight as soldiers. Her eyes roved to a piece lap quilt hanging above the love seat, then through a west window to the heavy skies and the lake's tin-colored chop. She lowered her suitcase by the door, but at the click of her mother's tongue, she

Lifted it again, her skin prickling. Maybe cabin 6, right next door, her usual lodging on the rare occasions she visited, would be better than here. She and her mother hadn't slept under the same roof, where Mom dogged her, picked up anything she left out of place since Hildy had left for college. "Come on," she told herself. That was then. Her mother needed a caretaker around the clock now, and until they could hire live-in help, Hildy was it.

Clouds broke in the wind, and a moat-free sunbeam stretched to the dustless plank floor, prompting Hildy's urge to lotion herself against her skin's errant flakes. Instead, she stroked a stone in her pocket she knew was granite, and pictured its riot of black spots. If she could, she'd release the rock as a Dalmatian puppy to frolic through the cabin and track the floor with river mud, shaking dog hair and dander into her mother's sterile beams, wagging a happy tail. Violet reached for the suitcase. "I've got it, Mom." Her jaw tight, Hildy swung the bag out of reach and crossed, stomped, to a closed room. Feet away, another door stood open to her mother's polished maple bed, its wedding ring quilt smooth and tucked. Smiling, Violet hoisted a laundry basket instead.

Hildy sighed. Her inability to keep house like this didn't warrant distancing herself from her well-meaning mother. Though Violet never said so, Hildy knew she hurt her mom with every rebuff. Wasn't Hildy's clutter, not to mention the scattered, undependable brain that caused it, disappointment enough? Though the truth embarrassed her, Hildy had to admit that apart from how she presented herself in public, she could never come close to her mother's standards for cleanliness and order. Only in Hildy's studies and her meticulous data collection and analyses did she begin to approach her mother's fastidious ways. At least her tidiness away from home allowed her to hold a job, too, actually. And just as she had earned grades that lied, that told others she was not only smart, but competent, now she worked at her occupation with such attentiveness that no one had guessed her secret. For a while, she hoped no one would discover that, like her mother, she was already losing her mind.

A frigid gust met her when she opened her bedroom, and her irritation flared again. Her bird would freeze in here. Lowering her bag, she gulped the fresh cold air, then closed the window, upped the bedroom wall heater thermostat, and opened the door wider for the flood of heat from the living room. She returned to the SUV for Butterness, set his cage on the dresser, and waited to uncover him until the room warmed. Hand to the heater, she crouched close to his perch, whispering, "A couple more minutes, little love, and you'll be warm as toast."

More rocks rattled in a pocket when she tossed her parka onto the bed. One by one, she extracted them and lined them up in a serpentine course along the window ledge her dad had cut to fit snug in the frame before he stained the fur deep red and painted the shiplap walls the color of cream. Her tension abated as she laced twigs and a feather from her chest pocket into the stream of pebbles. "Like fish in a river," she thought, "free to swim away." She turned from the ledge to find Violet in her doorway, staring blankly toward the window. "Mom, a little privacy, please," Hildy said, and swung the door closed.

Upending her bag, she strewed its few contents across the duvet: toothbrush and paste, chapstick and lotion, leggings and a tea for sleep. Undies, two changes of clothes in colors she loved: Moss, pecan, Alpen glow, buttermilk. "Your brand," Tess had claimed years before. "Can always see you coming." She dropped underclothes and nightwear into one drawer, then hung outer garments in the three-foot closet. Settled enough, she closed the bedroom door behind her and crossed to the bathroom, where she lathered to her elbows with rosemary soap from Violet's homemade stockpile, inhaling the scent like a sedative before she picked up a hand towel folded beside the little sink. Surprised, she sniffed the cloth, then patted a pair of bath towels stacked on another open shelf. Like the hand towel, they were wet. On a hunch, she walked past Violet to a kitchen drawer where she found washcloths, folded but damp. Oven mitts in the next drawer smelled of mold. She reached into her mother's basket and squeezed the contents. "Mom." She patted a rolled pair of socks to her mother's cheek as if it were a powder puff. "You feel that?" Violet wiped the sheen stamped below an eye and stared at the bald fabric in Hildy's hand. "More laundry. I swear, Hildy, you go through stockings as fast as they were in here, Mom. She held the socks over the wicker basket with all the other wet ones you're rolling." Her mother snatched the socks as Hildy let go. "Don't throw your dirty things there, daughter. I just washed them."

This was worse than she thought. "Mom, these socks." She pointed to the bathroom, the kitchen. "Those towels, you didn't dry them."

"Nonsense." Fear ran Violet's face, then slipped from view.

"They're wet, Mom, and you didn't even notice. You can't go on pretending about this anymore."

"Pretending?" Violet had gone blank again.

"Oh, Mom." Hildy's eyes welled. "You're pretending that you're not forgetful, that you can live alone, that you aren't scaring us all out of our minds with your rowing and random walks, and and you're pretending everything, Mom, and you can't anymore. We can't. For your own safety, you need someone with you 24/7."

"Absolutely not. You're making a mountain out of all your little rocks." The wit and sarcasm sideswiped her.

"I mean it, Mom. We're getting you help and you need to cooperate." Violet continued folding as if Hildy hadn't spoken.

"Face facts, Hildy. Trustworthy cognition had left Violet months earlier. She'd forget their conversation in minutes. Rapid early onset dementia." The doctor had told Tess from that college head injury, he surmised, when a crew teammate had cracked her skull. Though the diagnosis had alerted them, both she and her sister had been pretending too, thinking they had time. Now they had to catch up to the reality of their mother's condition. Violet alone here, even with June and Otis nearby, unplugging the stove wouldn't keep her from injury or worse. Riddled with dread, Hildy knelt beside the laundry basket. "Mom, I'll stay and we'll get someone to be here when I'm at work so you won't be alone. Or maybe you can visit June when I'm gone."

"Why June? Can't Tess stay home from school?" Violet's eyes clouded.

"Tess has a husband and grown boys and clients to look after. Their season's starting and all of them will be working it."

"What do you mean their season?"

"Sport fishing for Bingo. Mom, Fast Tide Charters, remember? And their boys trollers. You remember Tess married Bingo, right?" Violet looked over Hildy's shoulder at a framed photo. "Of course, I remember. Those are their little boys I babysit."

"You used to for Rudy Joel. They're 19 and 20 now, working their own boats out of..."

Violet stared at her. Spit bubbles formed at the corners of her mouth.

"So, I'll keep you company, Mom."

Violet nodded. "We can go rowing."

"Sure, Mom. Rowing?" Violet's thing, not hers. Hildy was caving again. She hated the sport. A familiar tug-of-war began in her, stretching her between the compassion she longed to extend to her mother and a resistance to physical or emotional nearness to her. A conflict fueled by a vague darkness she couldn't name tore at her, infusing the chronic longing she felt for her mother's affection with yet another surge of anxiety. Unresolved confusion returned in a flood. The physicians she'd seen after she left home had been no help at all. "No physical cause for her agitation," they'd said, just as they'd said meds could take the edge off Hildy's turmoil. Of course, she'd refused. No matter how much doctors reassured her she wouldn't risk altering the keenly functioning part of her brain, the only part of her worth anything, just to feel calmer. Eventually, every professional had suggested she see a therapist. But if pleading with God hadn't helped, why would spilling her weirdness to a human counselor do anything but make her feel worse? No. As long as she was sharp enough to do her job, she'd endure the anxiety and by recording her days would guard against any more memory lapses. She'd hide all this just as she had for most of her life.

"Rowing? I'd like that, honey. I'll fix us a lunch," Violet said.

Chapter 5. Hildy. Wreck.

Midnight. Hildy awoke shivering, and her first thought was of Butterness. She cranked the heat higher, gripped the bedding, and scrolled tighter into the flannel sheets and comforter, and caught a whiff of cold lake air. Adrenaline juiced her as she tossed blankets, leapt from her bed, and burst from her room to Violet's empty one. "Mom." Shrill with fear, her cry spilled through the gaping front door, bounced cross lake, and returned as an echo unanswered. She fumbled into boots, snagged her coat from the hook, and raced outside. "Mom, Violet!" Her shout clouded in the stillness, and she shuddered from this snap freeze, the eerie quiet after the storm's bluster, and her rising panic. "Mother!" She hurried to the dock, but the boats were tied, the water flat, the reflected stars uninterrupted by oar or splash. Hildy's call again pierced the air, and she broke into a run. Her boots crunched gravel, her lungs heaved. Shrieking now, she was halfway to the store when lights flicked on in June's kitchen, then flooded the porch. Otis, tousled with sleep, appeared on the landing, buttoning, scuffing into boots, suspenders draped at his hips. "She's gone!" Hildy gasped. June appeared behind him and tugged his jacket hood over his head. He stuffed arms into sleeves and thumped three wooden stairs toward Hildy. "You check the dock?" "Yeah, not there." She rounded the building as lights from the store's gable and gas pumps invaded the moonless dark and spilled onto the road. Only then did Hildy spot Violet barefoot on the highway center line 30 ft from the Elwa River Bridge. Hildy screamed her mother's name. To her left, headlights angled downhill toward the highway, turned to the river. The road's icy glaze a sheen in their path. "Mom," she screamed again and stumbled onto the slick pavement. She caught Violet's arm and jerked her mother toward her. The truck's high beams trapped them both in the instant before the driver swerved. The sharp downhill curve, the jerk of a wrist at the truck's steering wheel, a week of rain frozen fast in a quick turn of weather. A skid, its force centrifugal on a sickening icy arc into the oncoming lane. Hildy clung to Violet in horror as the truck skated, then slammed broadside into a concrete abutment of the bridge, a split-second eternity. As if deciding, the rig, its bed heavy with a slide-in camper and a pair of canoes, paused, teetered on the bridge rail, then flipped toward the river below. Still clinging to Violet, he'll detract the truck's descent by the grind and crunch of metal on rocks, the splash and sizzle of river on engine. Otis, his twisted back bent like a spy's, passed her at a run and skittered down the bank and out of sight. June hurried to the highway's shoulder and claimed Violet with one hand. Her other pressed a phone to her ear. Chilled and shaking, Hildy's mother studied her hands as if they were new. "Like an infant," Hildy thought, "with no idea what just happened." June waved the phone at Hildy. "911 on their way. You help Otis." Wobbly, Violet leaned as June turned her toward the store. Hildy hurried to the bridge and peered over the riverbank for the steep route Otis had taken to the truck 25 ft below, now roofed down in the water. A front tire spun and its chrome spokes blinked at the ice disc moon. On the downstream side of the cab, the dark shape that was Otis stood kneedeep in the inky river, hammering the partially submerged passenger window with a club, a rock. She couldn't tell. The river's current pummeled bridge pilings beyond outlines in the gloom. Vehicle, boulders, man. Had the truck landed mere feet to the north, the entire rig would have sunk in the hole where her dad caught that 20-in bull trout. She focused on the truck's dark hulk until her eyes adjusted, then bent to tie her boots. Then she dropped the laces and stared. A black shimmer of motion was rising through the underside of the truck. Steam from the engine? Gas fumes? No. Too far behind the engine, this emission came through the floorboards of the upended cab. Rather than actually seeing it, Hildy perceived it as a heatwave or a mirage in summer air. It was vaguely conical, without definite edges, dimensional but transparent, a distortion in the darkness. As if alive, the sensation rose 3 ft above the truck and hovered for a few seconds before it lifted overhead and loitered. A chilling membrane against the black sky and icy stars. It seemed to scrape the air before it dropped and dissolved in the river. She'd seen this one before. No sooner had the shadow disintegrated than she felt a second, larger asymmetry rise from the underbelly of the cab. Like the first, this impression hovered, but unlike the other, it seemed sharp, fragmented, uglier. Like a dangerous cloud of broken glass, it sped erratically away from the truck upriver. Hildy sensed it shrinking into the timbered foothills. "Otis," she called. He was already climbing toward her. "Cabs half full of water. I broke the window with a rock, but with that door caved in, no way to get it open or to reach that seat belt release. Other doors pinned against a slab. You got a knife on you?" "No, mine's in my truck." He rubbed hands on his thighs and expelled a breath. "Only one guy in there with his face underwater. What's left of it? His head's... I couldn't find no pulse." June called 911. "Won't help. The man's gone." He reached a hand. Hildy pulled him onto the highway's shoulder. She scuffed feet on the pavement, testing the icy road. "They had shadows, Otis. I saw them leave." He wiped his forehead and nodded. "Them? How many?" "Two this time." Otis lunged into a crooked-backed trot beside her and they hurried toward his pickup beside the shop. He gulped air every few words. "Only one soul in that truck. How many death wrecks you seen on this nasty corner anyway?" "Too many and too many of those ghostly shadows." Her vocal pitch climbed. "I told you I'm whacked." Mom had already decided as much when Hildy was 10. Otis stopped abruptly, squared to face her, and shook his head, his breath a frozen mist. "Ain't a crime to glimpse the unseen. Could even be a help." He touched her cheek, glanced back toward the river, limped on. Last July, she'd shown Otis her brain scan, but he refused to let her off the hook. Instead, he'd pressed a red area on the image with his thumb. One of the lit-up hot spots dotting her lobes. "Could be inherited, I suppose, but anxiety's tricky, Missy." He set the report on the table and stroked an ear. "Some get it from soaking up toxins or eating poorly. Others are living wrong, or they've been hurt or scared so bad their brains are just plain jumpy. A whole lot more have lie makers hanging around messing with them." "What do you mean, lie makers?" "Hell hounds, accusers, fearmongers, dark spirits, like them shadows you see leaving the deceased. They prowl the earth, you know, looking for chances." He cocked his head and studied her for too long. She squirmed under his gaze until she reminded herself that this was Otis looking at her. Wise old Otis, who loved her. "So, what's my reason, Otis?" "A combo, probably. And whether the chicken or egg came first don't really matter." "That's no help. You was threatened at Sunday meetings long before your dad disappeared. So it didn't start with that. All that doctrine you done, except for them red spots in that scan, your body checks out fine. All things considered, I'd say a lie maker's been working you for a good long while. Get it gone and I'd wager that brain of yours will settle down in no time." The man resumed his trot on the highway's gravel shoulder and Hildy stared after him. How would she remember this? Write it all down. Awoke to cold. Door open. Mom gone. Ran outside. Checked lake. Smooth water. Boats tied. Otis suspenders coat. Mom in road. Truck. Swerved. Hit bridge then river. Shadows escaped. Otis. He was 20 ft out when she jogged to catch up. His shout made plumes in the frigid air. "You want to get free of those chains of yours? All that anxiety?" "Here we go again. You know I do." "Then stop, Otis. You've told me 50 times." Maybe not 50, but while Fourth of July campers had settled into the resort's quiet hours, he'd repeated himself so often she could hear him in her sleep. "Do some digging. Find the lie." Was he right? "I care about you, girl." "I know, but it's not that easy." He skipped, his stride contorted, arched his back, and winced. "You don't have to do it alone." She couldn't think about that right now. "Mom can't stay here, Otis. Young and strong as she is, there's no telling what she'll do." He didn't seem to hear. A siren wailed in the distance as he heaved open the passenger door of his old Ford and read his watch. "That was quick. Trooper must have been nearby. You go look after your mama. Nothing you can do now anyway. Going to be a hard, ugly scene out here. You don't need another one of those." He dug in the glove box, extracted a utility knife. "I recognize that truck, Hildy. Belongs to that uncle of yours that Vi wouldn't talk to." She hid in the back whenever he came to the store. Her uncle. She and Tess had glimpsed him a time or two, but Mom squirreled them out of sight. Tess had pushed for a reason, but Mom wouldn't say why. She could hardly recall what he looked like.

When Hildy stumbled into June's kitchen, blank-eyed Violet sat hunched at the table, rotating her bald hands, her hair loose and snarled, her tea steaming untouched. June draped a parka over the woman's shoulders and poured another mug from the kettle. Hildy wrapped her fingers around the warm earthenware. Outside, more sirens wailed. Nearer now. Hildy stood at the apartment's folding door and watched through store windows as a caravan of lights descended the grade. A patrol car, then two emergency rigs, passed the state gravel yard at the curve, pulled in past the gas pumps, and crowded the patrol car at the bridge. Beacons flung nets of red and blue light over grocery shelves, forest, and Hildy's clothes as EMTs jumped from trucks and hurried down the riverbank. A trooper laid flares in the road. A second officer talked with Otis, who pointed him toward the pumps, toward Hildy. When the officer knocked at the store's front door, she admitted him, described the crash, and led him into the apartment to Violet. The man seated himself across from June, who rested quiet hands on Violet's nervous ones. He lowered his flat-brimmed hat to the table and leaned toward Hildy's mother, asking, pausing, gentle with Violet's nonsensical replies, his voice hummed low. "June can handle this." Hildy crossed into the empty store and leaned against the counter, tapped knuckles to her sternum to soothe her racing pulse, waited. Too long later, chairs scooed on the apartment linoleum. The officer, louder now, wrapped up, said goodbye. He touched his hat when he passed her and crossed the highway to the riverbank. Fidgety, Violet got to her feet at Hildy's return to the kitchen. "Come on, Mom. Time for bed." Hildy threaded her mother's arms into a parka, zipped her own, and pecked June's cheek before she herded Violet toward cabin 7. June hugged herself against the cold and called from the stoop, "Try to sleep some." Fat chance. At 3:00 a.m., with the deadbolt set and duct-taped against escape, Hildy lay wide-eyed and alert as Violet's soft pallet rattled with sleep. When fumbling at the lock roused her at 3:30, she directed her mother back to bed. And at 4:20, when she apprehended Violet with a leg through an open bedroom window, she clutched her mother to her and cried. Violet wouldn't release her, so until she slept again, Hildy lay stiff on the bed with her mother's arms around her and wished she could return the embrace.

Chapter 6. Hildy U-Haul.

June knocked at 8 a.m. with coffee. While her mother slept on, Hildy showered, dressed, and braided, stripped heavy gray tape from cabin 7's door, and let her in. June waved a list. Hildy read it wearily. "I took the liberty." June ran a finger down the paper. "These three have space. If you want to look, I'll stay with her." The bed creaked. Violet appeared at her door, her smile bright. "Well, June Hildy, you drink all that coffee or is there a splash for me?" "Of course. Vi, always enough for you." June rose, poured, and locked eyes with Hildy. "Running errands, Mom. Back in a bit." Hildy tucked the list in a chest pocket, and grabbed her keys, phone, jacket. "Enough craziness." She wished her voice held tenderness, but exhaustion and her inner drummings had stolen every shred.

Four hours later, she called the store. "Ela Fishing Resort. Hold on, please." The old cash register dinged, and she heard Otis count change for a customer. "Thanks for waiting. Best flies and burgers right here." She could picture him tugging the cord, the old black phone to his ear. "How's she doing now, Otis?" "Still with us? Bright as rain. She and Juny brought me lunch, and we laughed like old times." "So, what do we do now?" "I found a place for her. They can take her today. But if she's acting normal, I can't bear another night like that." "Otis, none of us can. Mom included. If she stays here, it's only a matter of time until something else awful." "What place?" "Hillview." "Good. Good. Let Juny and me bring her. May take a bit of talking, but after going through all that with Juny's mama, we're pros, you know. You mind the store and we'll call you from Hillview when she's settled. You can take her things later." "Okay. You sure?" "I'm sure. She'll think she's at the Hearst Castle, crowned queen, a fairy tale." The simple image, the help from him and June, the relief she felt. They broke and spilled her pent-up guilt, sorrow, anger. Sleep-deprived and caffeine-jittery, Hildy sobbed into her phone, and only patient Otis heard.

At 5:00, Hildy stood in the Hillview lobby and glanced at her watch. Dinner aromas wafted from the adjacent meal hall. A food cart rolled into the memory care wing as Otis and June approached. Fatigue preceded them. "My turn, I guess." Hildy watched the heavy door close behind the cart, winced as the lock clicked. June shrugged into the jacket Otis held for her. "Give her a few days, Hildy girl. I wouldn't rock the boat right now." Hildy frowned. "Is she okay now?" June said, but her brain was scrambled as eggs by the time we got her here. Took a while to calm her down. She was so lucid this morning." Otis propped a hand under his wife's elbow. "Comes and goes like that. You'll be glad to know we left her plucking a Go Fish card from the floor nurse's hand. Butterclam happy." "I should have..." "No. No shoulds." June steered Hildy through the exit to her Yukon. "You can help me collect her things. May as well get that done now, too."

Inside cabin 7, June quickly scanned the rooms. "She won't need much from here. Spare as your mama likes things. A few changes of clothes. That wall quilt, maybe. Never was much for memorabilia, our Vi." June took a long look at Hildy, who hung back. "I'm happy to gather if you'd rather not." Hildy looked at her hands, certain that touching her mother's things would scold her. "Go ahead." This final packing already felt like death, only without a body, or the bleak departing vapors Otis called dark spirits. What June didn't pack, Tess could take. Hildy wanted none of it. June nodded quickly, filling the laundry basket her foot scuffed across floor between cupboards and drawers. Hildy watched her choose from the closet. "See anything else?" June asked. Hildy shook her head and carried the belongings to June's truck. Mom's holdings reduced to a wicker basket. And Violet unable to pack a single item herself, much less lay to rest a resort that would die as the dams came down. No question now. June, Otis, and Tess needed Hildy here. But for how long? The USGS would grant her a leave, but she'd need more than 6 months to make it through this last summer season, then to close the resort and sell the rowboats, store fixtures, tools, the equipment, and cabin furnishings to say goodbye to June and Otis, who would have to move on. And she sure wouldn't want to be living here counting aluminum ores with a job on hold in Seattle. Not when her training could plant her smack in the middle of the Elwa River's re-siting. Yes, she had to come home. Even if shadows badgered her, even if she misplaced everything she owned and lost her mind to boot.

At 6:00 the next morning, she texted Everett's daughter D. "House all yours April 15th." At 9, she called Dave Cloud. "I'm in," she said. "I'll be there the first Monday in May." She could hear him smiling. At 10 and 10:30, she emailed two resignation letters: first to her boss at the USGS, then to the UW. With 47 days to button up her life in Seattle, pack her belongings, and load the U-Haul, she snatched her diary, nodded her boots, and headed upstream to sit on a rock and write everything everything down.

On April 14th, the 20ft truck she'd rented lumbered to a stop outside cabin 2. Hildy grabbed her hat and jumped from the cab, absorbing the citroen green of understory leaves unfurling on the 10-foot riverbank. Raising her arms, she gulped a lungful of honeyed air, the scent of cottonwoods in the fresh heat of early spring. Over a deep pool in the river, a nylon rope swing dangled from one of those trees, a replacement of the old one her dad had hung 30 years earlier, close enough to reach from her log cabin's porch. Her insides warmed. How good to live here in cabin 2 near the happy swing on the river instead of on the reservoir where, a 100 yards to the north, in front of her mother's cabin 7, Lakewell incarcerated the Elwa. Beautiful that water, but a prison nonetheless. Her mother, however, could never get enough of the lake. When Violet relinquished the store's apartment to Otis and June, she had chosen to live in cabin 7, her and Dad's original home, precisely because of the lake views and the little house's proximity to the resort's 10 rental rowboats. Her mom loved that vista, the trees climbing foothills, the wild, unpopulated shoreline, the aqua and indigo in the lake itself. A day rarely passed that Violet hadn't rowed the reservoir. A five-mile round trip and to the end. "Record pace. Or clear to the dam," she'd cry. Though both Tess and Hildy knew their mother's oar would have tapped the log boom guarding those spillways, not the concrete itself. Oh, the worry each time her mom set out. The fright. Old feelings flooded Hildy, hot as if new. Her helplessness at age five, alone and tearful on the dock as Violet's boat shrank down lake and vanished around the bend. Worst was her terror when her mother rode after dark. When the UTV fired up for Violet's 10 p.m. campground check, Hildy would creep from her blankets to the window and watch the gravel lane for her mother's return, praying to hear her parents' muffled voices with Violet safe in their bed. But if too many minutes elapsed with no sound of the returning vehicle, no click of the downstairs latch and no footfalls on the floor below, she knew Mom would be rowing the dark lake alone. Without houses or roads or any lights along the shoreline, who would see her mother's boat when it flipped or foundered? Who would hear her mama's cries besides nightbirds or hungry beasts or all those dark, silent trees in the steep foothill amphitheater? Night after night, Hildy lay haunted, imagining the fear in her mother's eyes as the lake bed rose like an animal and swallowed her whole. After Mom's late-night rows, Dad's rumbly tone and her mother's high-pitched one would rouse her. "War," she'd tell herself, though she couldn't make out their words. "Why the lake, Mama, over us?" Hildy blinked hard and wrenched her thoughts to a summer afternoon when she was nine. Her months-old pup had barked from Mom's returning boat and leapt from the bow when Hildy, giddy with relief, slapped her thighs at the dock. Violet had been flush-faced and jubilant, her sweaty caress of Hildy's cheek and her "Hi there, honey," a balm. Breathe, she told herself. At least here in cabin 2, she wouldn't have to look at the reservoir. During the weeks she'd sorted, packed, and closed up Everett's bungalow, she dreaded living near its shore, already eager for the dams' turbines to go silent, and the draining of lakes Oldwell and Mills to begin. She seated her cap over her braid, and turned her thoughts to the river running free, to how she'd feel like flying when it did.

June emerged from the store and called to her, "The place is all scrubbed and ready for you." Her dark hair was shorter now, a bob gray-streaked, and she held a key that swung on a leather strap like a metronome, keeping playful time to her footfalls before she dropped it in Hildy's open palm. "Here you go, girl. The key to a new life in your own cabin, not your mama's." Hildy's smile faded. "How is she?" She and her sister depended on June's weekly updates on their mother. Tess, cooking for hungry fishermen, had visited the facility only once since Violet moved there. Hildy, busy with packing, not at all. "Soon," she'd told herself in Seattle, taping another box closed. "Same. No more of that agitation, thankfully, though she fiddles with those locked doors most days. Causes a ruckus sometimes, wandering into others' rooms. Still knows me now and then." "Don't get that look again, Hildy. She hasn't mentioned your name. I've seen her clear-minded once, and then she only asked about the resort operations, and if those workers had opened the dam's floodgates after all that rain. I hate to say it's sweet, but I doubt she recalls her daughters anymore." Tears stung Hildy's eyes, but for her own sake, not her mother's. It seemed that Violet remained worry-free, even when losing her mind. Anxiety, useless as ever, was Hildy's department. She seated the key in the lock and swung the door inward. June stayed by the truck. "You check the place out. Soon as you raise that truck's big old door, Otis and I'll be here in a flash to help you unload. Like they say, many hands make light work." Hildy finished the phrase, and it cheered her. June had first said it by the gas pumps all those years ago when the search parties had gone home, and Hildy forgot how to fill a fuel tank. She'd repeated the expression through Hildy's high school years whenever Hildy was too scrambled or forlorn or friendless to clean a cabin or stock a shelf in the store. Chatty June always sniffed her out, lightened her work and her heartache. Hildy turned from her to the well-tented old cabin, smaller than her Seattle bungalow and one bedroom short. Inside, shadows from window grills cross-hatched on the cabin's plank floor, the red fur grainy and worn. She lowered a wooden blind, pleased. So many windows for a cabin this size, so many ledges, and apart from that single photo behind the door, a feast of empty walls. She lifted the antique frame from a nail and studied the sepia image of her paternal grandparents, still young, the half-built store behind them. She ran a finger along stripes of chinking between logs, swiped the flat of her hand down her dad's shiplap on the interior walls where she would place her freestanding bookcases. She would build more shelves, too, like those she'd detached to her Seattle bungalow. Light slanted through the square window in the gable, where its mullions formed a simple cross, a reminder. How had she never noticed it passing by all those years or cleaning the cabin after campers departed? Years when only her secret faith kept her upright. She liked the ceiling, too. Its 10-ft vault lined with ship lap, the tight, creamy backdrop between pole beams, perfect for items suited to hooks. The flat top of the tiny wood stove, stained by the pots and kettles of winter fishermen before her dad ran power to the cabins. It could serve as a summer shelf. She stepped off dimensions of the combined kitchen and living room, the bath, and the bedroom, considering crannies where the old logs joined. Her keepsakes would crowd the place a little, but they and their stories would all be with her, visual memories defying her childhood's lost ones. She needed them more than ever here, especially here. The time would go fast, two years in this cabin max. As the dams fell and reservoirs emptied, the Elwa Fishing Resort would die, too. And with it the life Hildy's family had known for almost 70 years. Tess had heard the gossip. Having acquired both of the dams, their reservoirs, and adjacent property, the Department of the Interior had begun accepting private bids to excavate the resort's gas tanks, raise the store, and bulldoze every cabin and shed. After the lakes drained, the DOI would relegate not only their business, but her family's presence on river to history. The demolition clock also ticked for Otis and June, who had promised to stay through the resort's final days before they moved to Chalan perhaps, or Ber, Pondore, or Cordelane, a waterfront campground somewhere in the Pacific Northwest, anywhere. With so much happening, Hildy had shirked enough, left too much responsibility to others. This last full resort season, closing the business, it would all rest on her shoulders now, plain and simple. Her dad would want her here. But even Dad wasn't the reason she'd come home. Something else beckoned her, though she couldn't say what.

A 100 ft away, June hauled a trash bag to the dumpster and looked toward the cabin. Hildy waved from a window before she walked to the U-Haul, unlocked the rolling metal door, and shook her arms like a sprinter in blocks. Otis appeared at her shoulder, pulled the ramp from the truck's underbelly, and lowered it to the ground. Hands on hips, he assessed the truck's contents, whistling low. "I hope there's air in those boxes, Missy. Your cabin will fall in the river if they're full." They carted the wooden table and chairs first to the sunny south window, then the love seat and Hildy's walnut desk. When she and Otis packed her bed frame inside, he steered it toward the bedroom. "Let's put it out here, Otis, under that beam. We'll stack the other stuff in the bedroom until I can go through it." She neglected to say that she'd already gone through everything back at Everett's. If she had room for the items in these boxes, she'd unpack them. If not, they'd be perfectly happy stored, as long as they were close by. Late in the day, Otis bungeed the hand truck inside the emptied U-Haul. Boxes lined the cabin walls and filled Hildy's only bedroom, floor to ceiling. "You've got your work cut out for you." June yanked the cord, and the truck's rolling door clattered shut. She brushed hands on jeans, pressed two fingers to her lips, and blew Hildy a kiss. "Let me know what I can hold to Goodwill." Hildy nodded, mentally cataloging June's gesture until she could write it down. June's love was like her dad's, given without expectation or theft. Nourishment she'd display on logs above her bed if she could.

Chapter 7. Hildy Decor.

At first light, Hildy awoke in her new cabin to the steady drum of rain. She rolled over in her fresh sheets, strained toward her table, and pulled a lightweight cover from Butter Ness's cage. "Rise and shine, Lovey." The bird shook feathers, sidestepped to a cuddlebone at the end of a perch, and chirped. "I'll let you out as soon as I hang stuff." She slid into slippers. After she punched the coffee maker, she tore a cinnamon roll from the tray June had left on her counter and pulled a jar of applesauce from the stocked refrigerator, smiling at a week's worth of favorites. Then, shivering, she turned to the bird. "Chilly in here, little guy, you okay?" With nothing to hide yet, she raised a blind and read the thermometer clipped to the canary's cage. "6°, no wonder you're puffed." She turned a dial on the wall heater and donned a fleece. "I brought your favorite landing spots," she said. "Mine, too."

Within the hour, the contents of several boxes lay strewn across the floor, and she'd lowered the blind again, twisting the slats half closed. She flattened cardboard, stacked it on the porch, and located her hammer. Then, while the canary sang to her humming, she hung treasures on the log and shiplap walls, and along the beam at the peak of the little cabin. By the time she'd used a pack of 100 hooks, she'd located another hundred and her tub of nails, and had sliced the tape on seven more moving boxes, from which she extracted items tenderly, matching their numbers to those in notebooks she assembled on a freestanding bookcase, mouthing their stories. She hung the vintage woodworking tools first, imagining her dad's hands on hers, teaching her, "Remember this one, Mr. B?" She raised a tenon saw to the bird, then hung it between two other specialty saws. "Sash dove tail," Dad called them. "What would we do without yard sales?" Two weeks before Hildy's high school graduation, she'd been helping her overwhelmed sister in CQ when Violet sold Dad's tools at her own sale. Hildy discovered the empty workbench and shrieked. "Oh, honey, it's for your college," her mother had said, then handed her the proceeds. She hung the draw knife, chisels, mallets, and planes, their wooden handles smooth with use and age. Plum line, augur, square, all from yard or garage or estate sales, each purchase noted in her records. Other tools she suspended from the multicolored vinyl clothesline she'd cut from the roll in the shop and attached at a diagonal between her perpendicular living room walls. Over a fat nail, leather caulk boots dangled from tied laces, the spikes on their soles still shiny. Her dad's boots saved from his logging days in the woods. She must have been four when she climbed into them and clumped across the wood shop. Laughing, Dad had lifted her and pointed at the spike holes in the old plank floor. She'd found the boots years later deep beneath his workbench, misted in Violet's purge.

When she stopped to eat, Hildy sat on her haunches, satisfied with her progress. How good to have her things and the stories and feelings she attached to them here in plain sight. Their comfort fueled her, and she added bird nests to the collection of tools. 83 at last count, all tokens from her fishery work. Nests of robins, of course, and of hummingbirds knit with spiders' silk and lichen. The mossy homes of Pacific wrens and sparrows, juncos and grosbeaks, finches, thrushes and kinglets, nests of warblers and jays knocked loose in early autumn storms of towhees, pine siskins and cedar wax wings, all built by birds that warmed her heart almost like fish did. And all is illegal to possess, as were the feathers and stones she brought home from parks she worked. Another reason to hide her home from prying eyes.

Unfolding a doll's metal high chair, she reattached the legs and hoisted the toy. "I ever tell you about my high chair, little bird? It was just like this one, only white with blue flowers, not red. How could I lose something this size?" But she had lost it. And though she'd replayed the day forwards and backwards, she couldn't recall how. Mom had frowned when she cried about it. By 2 p.m., Hildy had hung duplicates of other missing toys, all replacements, the originals' whereabouts unknown. She spun a wheel on an old steel skate and rolled its mate across the floor, their design identical to the pair she'd tightened to her shoes at Ericson Playfield. While Dad watched from a bench, she and Tess had skated smooth tennis courts, rough sidewalks. She'd bought this substitute pair, complete with that funny key, at a farm sale near the Marble Mount Fish Hatchery.

Late afternoon, the rain quit. Hildy assessed the bedroom, still 3/4 full, and carried one more box to the living room. Surely she could find places somewhere for these little items. She opened the lid to more small rocks, all polished in the tumbler; the otter skull and two mason jars of feathers in fanned bouquets; pencil-sized driftwood from estuaries; fall leaves melted to lace; dried kelp bulbs and starfish; freshwater clamshells and conifer cones. She had positioned the last of them in the few remaining crannies when she spotted June through a slat in the blind, walking the lane, headed her way. Seeing the room as June would, the growing warmth and safety she'd felt since morning shriveled. She met the woman on the porch. June grinned at her from the grass. "No trace of you all day, girl. Came to see if you got lost in there or buried. Getting settled?" Hildy crossed her arms, uncrossed them. Crossed them again. Knew her brows crouched. "I am." She smiled wryly. June's smile faded. "Do I get a tour?" No way she could hide her treasures or her need from June. Prohibiting her visits would be impossible. "Just you. Only you, Juny, and only this once." June laid a hand on her arm. "Hildy, it's me you're talking to." The swung door was her reply. When June entered, Hildy closed it between them and walked to her Yukon, where she pressed her cheek and palms to the hood. 5 minutes passed, 10. Hildy closed her eyes against the anxiety coursing through her, then stretched each exhale as an antidote to panic. She almost climbed in her rig and drove off. Would have if not for Butterness and her keys on the table. When June touched her back, she flinched. "That cabin's a big old stove, darling, with stories still cooking inside. I remember you telling me a few of them." "You do? I can't begin to know what they all mean. But I trust those memories will make sense to you once they're baked. Some will even be beautiful." "They will when the time's right. Smart of you not to open that oven too soon or to any old passerby." Hildy eased herself upright from the hood, her eyes averted. "No shame in what you're saving, sweet pea, and I'll bet you remember more than you think you do. That brain of yours is part of the beautiful."

Chapter 8. Hildy, Renter.

June's visit exhausted Hildy. For distance's sake, that evening she took an old pair of walkie-talkies off a hook, fitted them with batteries, and took a handset to June, who beeped Hildy six times in an hour simply to giggle through static. The next day, however, June's call held purpose. "Somebody here to see you," she said. "She wants to rent cabin one. Over." Hildy pushed back from her table and the clutter of resort paperwork Tess had handed off to her. "Does she realize it's only 12 by 16? No shower, closest to the highway." Cabin one typically rented last and never by request. "A business proposition," June said. "She's sitting at the lunch counter. You got time to talk to her?" The transceiver beeped twice. "Over." She giggled again. "Roger that. Be right there."

At the front door's jangle, a lean woman in jeans, a white tee, and a linen blazer spun toward Hildy on a lunch counter stool. Mid-40s, Hildy guessed, and queenly. Without threat, the woman's hazel eyes searched Hildy's. Lines at her mouth deepened with her closed-lip smile. She pulled brunette hair over one shoulder and stretched a hand. "Miranda Rimmer, my maiden name." Her resonant voice filled the empty store like a woodwind. "Your mother babysat my little brother and me."

"Really?" Hildy didn't try to mask her surprise. Far as Hildy knew, her mom had refused to watch any children besides her own until Tessa's boys were born and then only in a pinch.

"Just a couple of times right after our family moved here. Your mother was the only person my mom knew to call when they first arrived. She'd known her when they were kids."

"Oh."

"My grandparents summered on the Selduk, next place up river from your grandparents' property. Mom was a few years older than Violet, but being next door, they played together every vacation until... until they didn't. Pretty out there."

"Yes. Mom had fond memories of the peninsula. She'd always wanted to live around here, so when a teaching job opened up in Joyce, Dad jumped on it. We moved from Seattle into Grammy and Gramps's summer home when Luke, my brother, was a baby. Our grandparents visited on holidays, then joined us after Gramps retired from Boeing."

"I don't remember you."

"Before your time. I remember Mom calling Violet a newlywed when we came here. Later, when I asked your mom what 'newly wet' meant, she wouldn't stop giggling. She seemed happy, kind, laughed when I spun on these stools. Very different from your grandfather, if I may say so."

"You knew my grandfather?" Hildy was riveted now. On the few occasions she saw him, the man had seemed downright menacing, mean. Neither she nor Tess would come within 10 ft of him.

"We were acquainted with him, but that's a story for another day." She pressed an open hand to her chest. "So sorry to hear about your mom."

Hildy shrugged. "For now, I'm here on business. June said I should chat with you about my idea. Something about cabin 1."

"Yes. I'm wondering if you'd consider renting it to me longer term for a ceramics studio. A new venture for me, but I know business. I'm a nutritionist by trade, but I owned a successful health food store in Bremerton until my husband left me for a a young..."

nurse at his medical clinic. Disdain crossed her face, then was gone. I sold my shop after we divorced, then got out of dodge. It's still hard for her. I've been living out at Lake Southerntherland in our now my summer place, throwing clay pots on the wheel and at the wall now and then whenever I think too much about him with her. She waved a hand. But I digress.

Truth is, I have more product than I know what to do with. Thought if I set up a little shop with a kiln and potter's wheel here on the 101, right next door to your store, tourists might stop by and clear some of my inventory. Maybe take a lesson or two. I expect more traffic when the dams come down given all the publicity. I can design and make themed work for all that souvenirs. Take my mind off the crud of the past 2 years.

Hildy walked to the window and gauged cabin 1's proximity to her own. 50 ft apart and with trees between cabin 1's blank north wall faced her cabin's south windows better Miranda next door with business hours than a series of noisy fishermen and campers 24/7 you do know that in a couple of years this whole resort will be gone right I'm well aware with all that's happened to my family in the last 5 years yes I understand transients five ears did something else. She shook off the question, no business of hers. That could work, Miranda. May I think about it, get back to you? Certainly. Miranda scribbled a number on a napkin. I'll pay you the going rate plus whatever fees. You'll be fairly compensated. I'm not concerned about that. Miranda Rimmer roused none of Hildy's overactive suspicions. She liked the woman. Good. Miranda smiled warmly. Thank you. I'll look forward to your call.

Over dinner, Otis endorsed Miranda's proposal. June pledged to try the potter's mud. During dessert, the three talked rents. After Hildy slept on the idea, had coffee, and let Butter Ness explore their new home, she called Miranda and said yes. On Wednesday, April 21st, 2010, 4 days after they met, Hildy's tenant arrived in spattered clothes, claimed the key from June, and painted the interior of cabin 1 Robin's egg blue. Hildy stopped for a look after lunch, then documented the activity in detail. Three pebbles from the riverbank commemorated the day. Thursday, a week into Hildy's new life, a plumber carried a toilet and utility sink into the studio. An electrician upgraded the wiring. Friday morning, a freight truck arrived with the kiln. Her cheeks rosy. Miranda clapped as two men dollied the oven inside. "Come see," she called to Hildy, who watched from cabin 2's stare. Half an hour later, the women were crouching at the open kiln door when a black pickup with a bedwidth galvanized toolbox drove in. A contractor's truck with a metal frame above the box and a ladder strapped on top. Miranda towed Hildy outside and hugged the dark-haired driver. Hildy stiffened, then tried to slip away, but Miranda held the man's arm with one hand and caught her with the other. Hildy, meet my baby brother, Luke. He's going to build my shelves. Shily, Hildy worked her gaze from the man's boots to his jeans, his black tea, his ears, then gave a quick nod. A grin split his close-trimmed beard, thick as the curls from under his cap. Hi there, Hildy. He stepped toward her and extended a hand. You made my sister pretty happy with this place. Hildy nodded again, looked at his palm, and shook it. noted calluses and warmth she'd record in her diary. Glad it meets her needs. Hildy poked hands in her pockets and fingered the stones there. Clear eyes like his sisters, arms tight to her sides, she mustered a smile. "I'll let you get to work," she said, and didn't breathe again until she reached cabin 2 and locked herself inside.

Chapter nine. Luke Measures. Miranda watched Hildy's retreat, then leaned to her brother's ear. She's skittish, right? Don't take her personally. I wondered if I had a spider on my nose the first time we talked. Luke's gaze stalled on Hildy's cabin door. Whoa. No offense, Mirie, but is there a more beautiful woman on the face of God's green earth than the one who just walked in that cabin? mouth a jar. Miranda stared at her brother. 5 years, Luke. In all that time, this is the first I'm aware of that you've noticed another woman. Yeah, well. He inclined his head toward cabin 2. I can't believe it either, but consider the inspiration. Had that initial glimpse of his Eden swinging her feet from the dock all those years ago caught him by surprise like this? Miranda wadded a delivery strap and tossed it in a bin. You know what I mean? Luke turned away, sideswiped by the remembered image of his slight red-haired wife, her face a gleam with water bounced sunshine. He shut his eyes and saw her years later coraling strewn fishing poles on that same dock. He saw their girls, too, plain as day. Quinn, just six, and Lucy, not yet four, swinging bullheads from thin lines, as if it were yesterday. He felt Miranda's hand at his neck, a hand that had fed him after he found them, when he couldn't eat on his own, when he could hardly breathe. Not for me to say, little brother, but I can ask. Think it's time? She eyed him, towing the ground. Come on, Luke. No guilt. You're not unfaithful if you return to life. Just surprised at my reaction is all. I don't want to forget her. He pulled a tape measure from his belt and ducked into the studio. Miranda followed. You'll never forget her, sweetie. Your heart's big enough for a past and a future. Love's not either or, you know. Getting ahead of yourself again, aren't you, Mir? I show a passing whiff of interest, and you're already hooking us up. You even know the first thing about that woman? Only what June told me. Apparently, she's a fisheries biologist. Just took a job on the Elwa. Grew up at the resort. Last name's Nabbo. Nbo. Like the guy who owned this place. The one who disappeared 20 years ago. Yes. He was Hildy's father. I knew him. Worked for him. I thought so. But I bet you didn't know this. Miranda ducked toward him. Her mom, Violet, is Ulissiz Diller's daughter. No kidding. That old Grizz had kids, too. Violet and an older brother who died in that bridge crash last winter. He was a chip off Ulissi's old block, June said. Miranda nudged him with an elbow. Makes you want to know more, doesn't it? Makes me pity Violet or want to give her a medal for living with him. Ulisses was a piece of work. I know. Says a lot about Violet that his nastiness didn't rub off on her. She seems seemed his polar opposite. Accommodating. Nice as pie. She's in a lockown unit now, though. Dementia. Too bad. She snagged the hooked tip of his tape and ran it along the wall. I'm thinking a display shelf here. He nodded, jotted measurements from two walls as his thoughts floated again to his two little girls, his wife. From the moment he'd met his Eden, every woman had pald next to her. Even after 5 years, none had come close to attracting him, though he hadn't been looking anyway. Memories had demanded his attention. But this Hildy, something about the woman struck him like a hammer, or a feather, more like it, and it wasn't just her smooth skinned beauty. At the click of a button, the tape retracted, and he clipped it to his belt. That's all I need for now, Mirs. I've got some nice birch in the shop. You good with that? Sure. You leaving already? Got time for a coffee at the sto? Getting out of here. I upset you. I'm sorry. Miranda moved toward him, but Luke raised a hand. I'm okay. Like I said, I'm just surprised. Best if I head home, get my bearings. Her face fell. If you need someone with skin, I have good ears. You always did. Let's see. Friday today. Will you be here Tuesday? Bring some of those mugs or whatever else you're displaying. I'll have shelves. He forced a smile and lifted two fingers at Miranda from the steering wheel as he turned the truck up the Elwa Valley grade toward Port Angeles. His composure held while the cabins retreated, but at the Lakewell overlook, he pulled off the highway and buried his face in his hands. Feet away, a Subaru parked at a slant. The driver lowered a window and raised her binoculars toward the valley. crowded. Luke blinked until his tears stopped. His vision cleared in seconds, but his mind didn't. He backed out slowly and re-entered the highway, oblivious to everything but the road until it carried him into the hillside town 7 mi east. Only when he descended Lincoln Street toward the straight did he scan the sky in saltwater, gray and sullen at the foot of the slope. He glanced past an oceangoing frighter at Edis Hook. the aluvial arm that guarded Port Angeles Harbor from the unpredictable straight of Juan de Fuka. Puerto de Los Angeles, he mouthed absently. Port of the angels. To the early Spaniards, maybe he said aloud, picturing his wife in the adjacent seat. Those angels didn't help you or the girls, baby. self-reroach, mostly absent for the last year now, reared ugly in him as he remembered. He knew the judgment well, a complication of the grief that lived in him as a steady companion. He'd learned to refuse the accusation most of the time once he had allowed forgiveness to reach him. But unbidden, the old tape could still bludgeon him, like it was doing now. The memory always began with that April day, a day much like this one. At the marina in Seeiku, he'd fired the twin Cumins diesels on the safe seas, the commercial salmon troller, where he and Eden and the girls lived in space scarcely big enough for two, where they filled the hold with line caught fish, and where Eden homeschooled their young daughters. That last time, while his wife had herded the girls from the CEQ dock to the gang way, he'd untied lines, returned to the wheelhouse, and watched them climb in the truck before he set out. Hours of smooth water later, he spotted the truck in the parking lot at the Port Angeles Boat Haven. His wife and daughters waited at his birth in that marina, holding hands. The girls had hopped and high-fived at the slip when he docked. He thought of other years, how they'd mored here each time he took this trip. How on each visit to Port Angeles, Eden welcomed the break from tiny Seeu, enjoying the larger town's bustle, the easy access to shopping and high school friends, and swimming lessons for Quinn and Lucy. He scarcely remembered their wrote drive to Fairchild Airport, or their routine goodbye that afternoon. Only snippets came to him. Eden's fingers twining his hair, the smell of her neck, how he'd kissed the girl's crowns while their arms wrapped his waist and thigh. Back in a week and a half, he'd said, "Have fun." He'd climbed on the prop plane to Seattle eagerly, then boarded the 737 for Hawaii. At 30,000 ft, he reviewed his route through Oahu and Maui. A packed 10 days had followed during which he renewed every contract for his small fleet's hook caught wild salmon. He'd added new clients for his IQF individual quick frozen fish too. King salmon chinuk cold water beauties for which those high-end restorators paid top dollar. Elated he'd called Eden after he checked in for his return flight. His wife laughed. See you tomorrow with bells on love. she'd said, then handed the phone to Lucy. Daddy, I got starfishes. He'd texted his wife on the quick Seattle layover. Hadn't thought to look for a reply. The remembering landed in Luke's chest, which heaved as he pulled to the shoulder at the top of the Morse Creek Hill. He hadn't noticed his drive through the rest of Port Angeles. Stop, he told himself. Enough torture. But the memory was alive again in its thousandth replay. 10,000th. He gulped air and returned to it. He'd landed at the little airport at midnight, expecting to see Eden at the wheel of their crew cab and his sleepy pajama clad daughters buckled into the back seat. He recalled his confusion when the truck hadn't showed, when his call went to voicemail. The recollection dizzied him, left him breathless. He surfaced and noted the whizzing cars. Felt the protective numbness advance. "Hang in there," he told himself. "See it through." Running from the memory in those early years had only heated his loss, then spread it in a thick film across his days and nights. The agony had so disabled him that he'd sold their vessel and his other two boats along with all those contracts to Bingo Brink in Secu. The right decision in retrospect. Even the smell of his farm tractor's diesel could send him into a tail spin. He closed his eyes and forced slow exhalations. Recalled how he pulled his bag from the taxi in the marina's gravel lot that night there beside the truck Eden should have driven to pick him up. How he'd opened the dock gate and laughed at his early to bed wife. Overslept her alarm, he told himself, or set it for am instead of p. them. Dock planks had groaned under the weight of his strides. Pontoons shifted. Water slapped their boats hull. The breeze flapped a banner at the ship's railing with, "Welcome home, Daddy!" in his six-year-old scrawl. He whiffed creassote from pilings and diesel exhaust from the throaty generator that warmed his family this chill spring night. He boarded the safe seas and stepped over three starfish on the deck, opened the locked cabin door. Inside the quiet, stuffy cabin, the girl's bunks empty, port holes closed tight against the clammy air. Then, in his and Eden's bed, his girls curled against his wife. Lucy, her thumb sucking stilled as if in sleep, but like her sister and mother, as dead as the carbon monoxide detector he'd failed to check. He no longer howled with grief, nor did he travel in memory every day. But when he did, their deaths smacked him, riddled him, dropped him, changed him. Only recently had he recognized that some of that change was good.

Chapter 10. Luke Jangles. 10 mi, then 15. Luke's pain retreated with the distance he put between himself and Port Angeles. Clouds overhead dissipated, too, as the rainy forests that covered most of the Olympic Peninsula gave way to fields of lavender and hay and grazing cattle and his own 20 acres complete with barn and farmhouse, tractor and irrigation piping. He'd chosen the place specifically because of the land's location in this rain shadow, away from heavy skies that cried as often as he did, and because he couldn't see any neighbors or the sea from anywhere on the hill rimmed property. The sandy soil and sparse trees, the craggy mountain views, even the docsel long horn that came with the place were his life now, the home base for his fledgling carpentry business. If not for Miranda's post divorce flight to Lake Southerntherland and this new venture of hers at the Elwa Resort, he'd have avoided points west of Squim altogether. Even in April his truck raised a trail of dust on his ruted driveway. In the rough pasture bordering the road, a brindle cow wagged a heavy head with every swipe of her tongue. When the broker had shown him the farm, the placid animal had stood 10 ft from the fence, while the owner's 12-year-old daughter tied ribbons at the base of curved horns Luke swore were 6 feet tipto. The girl had looked at Luke, straightfaced, stoic. We can't take her with us. She rattled a large bell hanging loose at the cow's neck. Her name's Jangles. the girl's gap teeth, those tangled red curls. Quinny, six years older. He'd keep the cow forever, promised the girl there on the spot. 34 days from his accepted offer, Escrow had recorded his deed to the farm. With a deal done, he loaded his truck with a sleeping bag and the essentials Miranda had retrieved from his boat when he couldn't. Funny the things a guy remembered that swack of his brother-in-law's nine iron hitting golf balls from their yard onto the fairway behind their house. Miranda at his truck bumper with a box of glassear bound for Squim. Her saying, "I can help, Lukey." His reply, "You already have messes. Still alive, aren't I?" That day, without looking back, he'd driven the hour and a quarter to his new farm, and ducked through barbed wire into the pasture. With his back to a cedar fence post, he'd sat in the dry October field, and watched the Longhorn graze and chew her cud and suck from the trough at the gate. At dark, he pulled the agent's tag from the brass key and two years and six months after the funeral for his wife and girls, entered the empty three-bedroom farmhouse alone. At least the rooms didn't echo now. He tossed his keys and phone on the counter, opened the fridge, and slapped a sandwich together for dinner. While he ate, standing, he opened his phone to a scripture app and clicked, listening. So you have sorrow now, but I will see you again. Then you will rejoice, and no one can rob you of that joy." He'd fought that hope like a blue fin, but the braided line held. Miranda had hooked him with it, all right, then strapped on her harness and nursed the rod until he was played out. She'd proven the line's strength again when her own pain struck. From a pocket, he pulled the measurements of his sister's studio. You want shelves, mirrors? I'll build you a hundred. The next day, he swigged water and crossed his bumpy lawn to the barn's back door. A northern flicker landed near the stove pipe he'd punched through the roof and patched in with shakes from a cedar bolt he'd found in a stall. Luke eyed the bird, its cheeks stre with the male's trademark mustache. "You again, keep it down this time, will you?" Inside he stroed past the tractor, yard tools, and a hay-filled stall before he heard the first peck on the metal chimney. He propped the door open to the workshop at the barn's far end as the bird tested tentative patterns of sound. Frenetic taps for a mate erupted as Luke lifted a birch plank from a curing rack and studied the board's length for warps. He smiled at the speckled woodpecker's drumming, its echo loud in the pipe and megaphone stove. And his thoughts returned to Shy Hildy. Dang, woman. Don't know how, but you're as loud as that bird.

Chapter 11. Hildy. Encounter. June flipped another egg, then tapped the calendar by the phone, counting. 6 days until you start that new job, Hildy girl. You'd best see your mama before you lose yourself in that river. At June's kitchen table, Hildy mopped yolk with the last of her toast and nodded. She'd been home a week already without stopping by Hillview. You don't need to stay long. She won't know the difference, but I expect the visit will quiet that conscience of yours. Hildy glanced at the clock. Only 7 a.m. and a Tuesday. If she left now, she'd be back before 8:15, and the rest of the week would stretch before her with only warm days and mountain trails as companions. "Besides, June was right. Guilt niggled at her. Time to check this visit off her list." "Yeah," she said, "Good idea." In a rush, she brushed her teeth, dawned sunglasses, and her waist pack. Then she slid Butter Ness's floor tray from beneath him and lowered the cage over a bowl. Sunlight caught the canary's feathers as he dropped from the rim into tepid water, dunked his head, and shook droplets onto wings and cage and a towel floor. When Hildy turned to go, he cheaped. "Take your time, little bird. I'll be back in an hour."

At Hillview, Hildy signed in, pushed open the buzzing door when the bolt clicked free. A nurse pointed her to the straightbacked chair where Violet watched the courtyard fountain like a movie. Mama. Violet shifted in her chair, brushed her cheek as if swiping a fly. Mom. Her mother twisted, swept a vacuous sighteline past Hildy, then refocused on water spilling from tears. Pity eclipsed Hildy's discomfort. Her hand hovered above Violet's shoulder before she rested it there. Mom. Louder this time, but her mother was elsewhere. 2 minutes later, Hildy was too. Outside, she absorbed the bright morning and felt only relief. She was speeding through town when colored lights flashed in her rearview mirror. on Peabody Street. The officer checked her license, studied her eyes when she explained. My mother "Get out of here," he said. "And slow down." For four blocks, she did until the boulevard, when she raced around two cars. On the highway, she passed four more. At 8:10, as fatigued as if her own legs had been speeding, she pulled into the resort, caught her breath, and wished herself invisible. Miranda's Audi and Luke's black Dodge nosed cabin one like horses at a hitching post. Luke turned from his tailgate when Hildy pulled in. Her rear view showed him striding her way, his tool belt swinging at his hips. She shrank in her seat, waited, palpated her braid, and checked pockets for rocks. Had no clue what she'd say when she got out. He was beside her door before she mustered the courage to open it. At least he didn't swing it wide. Instead, he stood back, arms at his sides, watching violet green swallows rocket overhead. Rested his gaze on her when she climbed out. Perfect timing, Hildy. Miranda and I, we could sure use your input. I have one idea about these shelves, and she has another. He laughed, shook his head. Ah, big sisters. You have one? If you do, you'll know what I'm up against. She towed the ground, angling for a piece of granite. I do. Four years older. Tess H. My good friend Bingo's wife is named Tess. I never met a Tess before. She looked at him then. My sister's that Tess. You know her? Agitated fingers traced her phone's outline in the waist pack. Oh, to call Tess then and there and ask about this man who was so so so what. She couldn't remember the last time she'd described a man, even to herself. Yeah. Bingo introduced us after they'd gone out a few times. She was still in high school. He asked me to stand up for him when they got married, but I was working in the Bearing Sea and couldn't make it to Vegas on 2 days notice. They were in a bit of a hurry. I'll say. His laugh felt like warm rain. No shotgun needed, though. He sure loves that woman. Bingo loves Tess. Bossy Tess. The thought had never entered her mind. Tess had been pregnant and they'd married. End of story. Sure, Bingo was good to her sister, but Hildy had always assumed her jovial brother-in-law stayed for his boys and nursed beers for tolerance. Her thumb played a cuticle like a fiddle. H how did you meet bingo? At right out of high school when we crewed a purse ser together for a guy named wait for it. He poked a cheek with his tongue Ulissiz Diller. Violet's surirly old dad. Surely he was joking. You lived on a boat with my grandfather. Small world, right? How frightening. You got that right. I almost swam home. would have too if we hadn't been in southeast Alaska and heavy seas. I'll have to tell you that story sometime. Sometime she'd tried that once. Ever since she didn't do sometimes with men. Her notebook was inside the cabin, a jar of pens on her desk 15 ft away. She cidled toward her door. He narrowed the distance between them. Before you go, got a minute to give us your two cents over there? He raised a bent elbow toward the studio. Hildy puffed her cheeks. Sure. Good. A task. Enough of this one-on-one. Shifting direction, she stroed briskly to cabin 1, consciously reassembling the persona she'd worked hard to create. When Luke opened the door for her, she'd regained her erect posture. Her aloof mean. Untouchable. She hoped. Miranda met them laughing. I see my baby brother brought reinforcements. She slung a graceful arm around Luke's neck and held him in its crook, their affection obvious. Luke ducked free and mused her hair. She didn't try to smooth it. "See what I mean?" he said. "The woman's a tyrant." Familiar longing pierced her. "Keep your distance, Hildy. One problem. These two had drawn her inside their friendliness and now held her there. Did Luke sense her discomfort?" She felt his eyes on her. So, Hildy, you're our arbiter. Miranda wants to jam every free inch of these walls with display shelving and fit her wheel, greenear drying racks, that little water closet, and the checkout counter in this 12x6 box. Likes things cozy, she says. For the first time in forever, Hildy fought back a grin. I told her that if I build out her plan, there won't be more than a foot wide path through the store. Customers will be knocking things over, get an animated student on that wheel, and muddle be flying on the few souls brave enough to come inside. Now, Miranda suppressed a smile. So, Luke suggested an expansion. An expansion? Hildy tried not to squeak, but this was getting away from her. Give them an inch and they'll take a mile. a favorite violet line when Kembers knocked at all hours. Luke crooked an index finger, beckoning them to the neglected patio at the cabin's south wall. Hildy bent and pulled grass from cracks, listening. I could frame a little addition here, facing the highway, 10 x 12 or so. He wagged a hand at the concrete. the size of this old slab. Lots of glass on three sides and freestanding shelves to display your finished goods and those souvenirs you talked about. Mirrors, did they realize how little time they'd have here? Two rooms, he said. The original cabin for the messy stuff and a gallery in the new addition with an exterior door to each. He pointed with a half wall there. Customers can watch potters work the mud without getting in the way. They'll be lined up for lessons. Miranda's smile was ry. My brother the marketer. Damn right. He poked Miranda's arm. No n pun intended. Expensive to build all that. Hildy said then bered herself for fretting again. She wished it weren't so. But all this, the investment, the hype, the man scared her. You do remember their tearing down our resort in a couple of years. Every structure will go, including this addition you're proposing. We know. Don't worry about the money, Hildy. This is my gift. A thank you to my sister and a tribute to uh someone who's been rebuilding us since life knocked us flat. Miranda's eyes filled. Okay, Ly, you win. If Hildy agrees. Knocked them flat? Both of them? Hildy didn't dare ask. As long as you realize it's temporary. Luke's face lit. We've got a deal then. I can knock it out in 3 weeks. Have you up and running before Memorial Day? Mirrors. He squeezed his sister's arm, then shot his palm at Hildy, who shook it as any professional would that warmth again. How could she record a touch like his? What would she find on the riverbank to lock it in her brain? Don't you need a permit? I'll get something in the pipeline at the county. See that edge around the patio? Used to be some sort of structure attached here. Permitting's easy if you build on an existing footprint. Besides, you think the county will care? This little project will be history in no time. His tape stretched across a new wall, then rattled as it retracted. Hildy remembered the slat enclosure once attached to these footings, how it afforded guests privacy from the highway and from fishermen at the bridge until an RV bumped a corner post and it buckled from rot. She and dad had dismantled the whole fence, thrown boards and spongy posts on the burn pile. Miranda was tapping her chin, walking the proposed rooms perimeter. Few certainties in this life. I'm sure it sounds strange to you, Hildy, but knowing this cabin's short-lived helps us both. This dream's for now, and we're going to make the most of it, right, Ly?" He plucked a pencil from behind his ear, a notebook from his chest pocket, jotted. Dreams take lumber.

Chapter 12. Hildy frame. In her dream, Dad ran a skill saw alongside a penciled line as Hildy held the plywood flush against the guide. She was young, learning, and the scent of sawdust was the scent of her father. Sprawled under her crumpled duvet in cabin 2, she burrowed into her pillow and gripped the image until the irresistible scent and feel of wood faded. But the pulse and wine of a saw persisted. She opened her eyes, read her bedside clock, and crept to the window. 2x4s, the longest red flagged, projected from the bed of Luke's truck. Only 6:30, Mr. B. Her bird fluttered when she uncovered his cage. The man's out there already. She dressed, brushed, and braided her hair, replenished the canary's seed and water, and wished she could construct the addition herself. She'd honed her skills on Everett's place and loved every cut, every nail, every stroke of a brush. Be practical, Hildy. You start work in 5 days. Well, she could at least keep tabs on the project. June would be up by now. If Hildy ambled over for coffee, she could sit at the wall and peek. Good, good, good morning. Arms raised. June called from her open door, loud as a trumpet. Hildy winced, glimpsed Luke looking their way, and quickly stepped inside. Across the table from Otis, she sat beside the window where she could duck if she had to. Otis talked through French toast. Them two are like kids building a fort with refrigerator boxes, he said. It'll take a year or two and bulldozers instead of a month in rain, but that hideout's still coming down. I don't think they care. Hildy said. I get the feeling that studio's symbolic of something that happened to them and how they survived it. June handed Hildy a warm mug. Miranda didn't tell you then. You want some egg toast? Hildy looked at Otis's plate. Sure. Didn't tell me what? June dunked bread in batter, laid it on the griddle. About their two hells. His first, then hers. What sort of hells? Hell is hell, sweets. Just different addresses for the same enemy. Luke's came with the deaths of his wife and little girls. Miranda's when she caught her skunk husband with a fresh young thing at his pediatric clinic after hours. An RN so green her pin was still shiny. Hildy studied the carpenter, laying tubby eyes on saw horses. His family dead. Her breathing stalled. I guess I knew about Miranda's. But Luke's, how long ago? Got to be five or 6 years now. Miranda's not so long. They're a powerhouse pair, those two. But they'll be the first to tell you it's not their own power. If you live through what they have and still want to see Mourn, you've been carried. She flipped the toast, watched it cook, and slid a plate to Hildy. June knows the air in Luke's direction. I liked seeing you talk to him the other day. You two have a lot in common. He used to love salmon as much as you do. Caught him and sold him, but still. Otis carried his plate to the counter and poured more coffee for June. She added cream. He turned his back on the sea after everything happened. Sold his boats and market connections for a bundle, but Bingo says the price was fair. It's worked out fine. Luke stays busy now doing just what you see out there, though finish works his specialty. Man's an artist. His wife and little girls, a firebomb of pain. From June's kitchen, she studied Luke to the wine of his saw and the squeak of nails clawed from old lumber. Watching his hands, she saw her father's guiding her first seven hammer and whittling finials for the posts on her bed. raccoon, fish, dough, robin. She'd helped dad sand that bed, then rub it with tongue oil. Had slept in it ever since. Happy memories. Good ones from the start of her lifelong pleasure of working with wood. Good feelings instead of burning ones. Over two days, Luke tore siding from cabin 1's south wall, pulled wood shingles, and trimmed the roof line to its stripped exterior, nailed 2x4 framing until ready walls lay flat. While he worked, Hildy hung out in June's kitchen, where she wrote notes in her diary, played cribage with Otis, folded laundry, and stole glances at the carpenter's progress. On her third morning at the window, June tapped her with a wooden spoon. He won't bite, Missy. Why don't you offer him a hand? Hildy gaped. I couldn't. I can't. Why not? Simple project out there. You got the skills. You're out and out drooling over it. But you think he's going to rrestle you to the ground, take away your hammer? That's not fair, June. I push yourself a little. You stand in front of classrooms all the time. That's different. No harder, though. Two more days and you'll be burning daylight on that river and miss your chance. June, now I know I'm not your mama, and you're no longer a child. But I want you to walk out of this store, past that little cabin, and take a good look up close at what that man's doing. I'm going to watch for words coming out of your mouth. No way, June. I I'm cashing in my chips. Hildy, you owe me. Go. Jun's growl belied her care, and Hildy knew it. Only this once for you. That's my girl. At the gas pumps, Hildy paused, checked over a shoulder for June. Alone, she considered the cabins around the building to her right, then ducked left, where the path behind the woodshed and shop would loop her to her cabin unseen. Instead, she smacked into June at the corner. "Nuh-uh, girl. You might even like him. Hildy bit her lip and turned on a heel toward cabin 1. Where was Miranda? With no escape route, she trudged toward Luke, dead ahead, his back to her. A guillotine that man, and she, Mariaette. She chafed at the absurdity, and walked slower still, his bare sweaty back. He would finish that drink from his thermos, then spot her, expect her to talk to him. how when she could scarcely look at him too much. Scuffing to a stop, she pivoted. June knocked on the window and shook her index finger. Hey, Hildy. His voice stung her. Hand pressed to her belly. She turned and blinked at his sweaty cheeks and forehead. At least he'd pulled on his shirt. She acknowledged him with a nod. Luke. That shirt lifted to mop his brow. Her gaze bounced to his muscled stomach, then to the trees. He dropped the fabric and grinned. "Your timing's perfect. Could sure use some extra hands. I thought Mirs would be back by now, but she got held up in town. Walls will go up a lot faster with two of us." Without speaking, she eyed the socket wrench, the waiting heap of bolts, and stepped through the 2x4 wall in the gravel, inspecting. Then she hefted one side of the frame, testing the wood's weight. "Okay," she said. "For June." "On three," he said. They hoisted the wall and settled the treated base over the shallow footing. While she held the frame upright, Luke tacked one end to the stripped cabin and positioned braces at its opposite vertical. He tapped the base, aligning it with the concrete rim. "Now to bolt this puppy!" His eyes moved from her hands on the frame to her face. You good holding that? I'd rather run that drill. He hiked an eyebrow. You've done this before. When she nodded tense, he seemed to be fighting a grin. Your jaws set. You're not kidding, are you? Hildy shook her head and glanced fertively toward June, still at the window. I marked the centers. He checked the bit, tapped the battery, and laid the drill on the concrete, gripped the frame midwall. All yours. Hildy almost leapt to the drill. At a pencled V on the base plate, she positioned the bit and bored the first hole through the wood and into the weathered concrete. Luke and June both shrank in her mind as she secured the anchor bolt, moved to the next crowoot, and drilled again. Her socket wrench tightened the last bolt before Luke released the frame. You're hired. Got a question for you, though. She rose to her feet and brushed shavings from her pants. Shot him a cautious look. Don't worry, woman. It's an easy one. He chuckled low, warm, relaxed. His way made her believe him. She exhaled through her mouth. just wondered where you learned to do that. I've known a few biologists in my day, and most of them aren't builders. Well, that's not true. Plenty of her colleagues could build all kinds of things from my dad. Ah. Luke's head tipped a few degrees. I remember your dad. Liked him. She frowned, suspicious. You knew him? Bought flies from him when I got my first fly rod in grade school. worked with him the summer I was 16. I painted those rowboats you guys rent out. How old are you? She asked. So blurry and rude. Heat curled her cheeks. Turned 41 last week, a few days before Miranda introduced us. If he minded her asking, she sure couldn't tell. Though it's possible you and I met that summer I worked here. I remember a little blonde girl bringing me water one day out by your shop. She never said a word except to chirp at that puppy of hers. Think that was you? Do you remember me? A fuzzy scene arrived in fragments. So much forgotten or confused in those years. But yes, she did remember him. A man, young but still a man swiping red enamel over green. And Coco, her chocolate lab puppy with that dab of red paint on his waggy tail. Mom made me bring drinks to workers. Huh? Never saw your sister though. Didn't know you had one. Mom always sent me. Tessy was too uh Never mind. Too everything for mom. Huh? So if I may ask, how old are you? 34. The question felt fine coming from him. Then you'd have been nine, I guess. And now here we are, practically agemates. His eyes startled her. Hazelcoled like his sisters, but with a smile in them. Seems that way to me at least. How about you, Hildy? You looking at an old man? Easier not to look. She plucked a nail from the slab and shoved it in her pocket for that spot on her window ledge. Last time she'd guessed a man's age, Cole had been crossing the UW's hub lawn past her clustered group of brand new freshmen. He'd moved like someone older. Since him, personal data about men, any men, had been irrelevant. No point in wondering. But Luke was way off. You're anything but old. That turn of his mouth. His disarming grin upped the heat of self-consciousness and attraction already coursing her face and neck. She directed her attention to the 2x4 skeletons in the gravel, and her hands itched. Either to raise the walls or to hurry home and write about all this. Too much talking. Those ready.

Chapter 13. Luke worker. The woman could do everything. While Miranda came and went, Hildy bolted the opposite wall to concrete and helped him position the farthest southernmost frame. She anchored that side, too, before they ran another 2x4 top plate that overlapped the three new walls and tied them together. By 3:00, they'd cut rafters to the cabin's 612 pitch. Ready for more, Hildy stood on the slab with hands on her head. But Luke unplugged his saw and began coiling the extension cord. Wish I could stay, he said. But I've got to check another job. Lit by the amber afternoon, she nodded once, fingered the hammer in her tool belt, and edged toward her cabin. Wind off the river caught a stray blonde strand and sent it past her nose. He imagined tucking it behind her ear. Think you can help again tomorrow? You don't start work for 2 days yet, right? On May 3rd, Miranda said, "No worries if you have other plans, but I can help," she said, then slipped like a blown leaf behind the cabin. His breath hitched at her quick exit, but he restrained his impulse to follow to seek a proper closure to their day together. He waited, listening until her door squeaked and thud had closed. He'd offered to oil the hinges for her, maybe tomorrow. He was parking the next morning when a braid wrapped head showed above the riverbank. Only 6:15, but Hildy, her face to the trail, was climbing the steep slope toward Miranda's new studio with her tool belt strapped to her hips. She smiled shily and shoved something in her pocket. Luke narrowed his eyes at the sky, then walked toward her. Going to be hot today. That river might feel pretty good come lunch. He raised his chin at something behind her. You ever jump off that thing? Hildy turned to the rope swing that hung near her porch. Used to? He knew better than to pry. Care if I do? No. We'd better rumble then. Finish those rafters, then see how much sheeting we can lay before that water yells so loud we can't resist. He was even more impressed this second day with her. with every new task. H the anticipated steps, calculated quickly, cut boards to the millimeter, drove 16d nails with three or four swings. She worked fast, too, and though as flighty and quiet as the feral cat under his farmhouse, she seemed eager to help. She was pushing plywood toward him when he realized that for once he didn't shrug off the company of a helper, but welcomed it. For the first time in all those years alone, he felt contented with companionship, specifically with hers. When she wasn't looking, he watched her. When she passed near him, or held a brace steady, or hammered an arm's length away, he breathed her in. For hour upon hour, everything about her awakened him. No surprise he reacted physically to the woman, working that close to her delicate, breathtaking beauty. He was a man, after all, not a stump. But it was his emotional response that caught him off guard. If recent years had taught him anything, they'd instructed him to intuitit hearts, especially the ones made vulnerable, made beautiful through pain. He'd seen Hurt's effect on his own sister when her husband's betrayal broke her and when her reassembly began. Was this Hildy in process, too? He sensed as much. A bruised reed, he thought. Fragile, fascinating. Also surprising, Hildy didn't rouse memories of Eden, as he'd feared she would, but instead stirred him with curiosity about what went on in that mind of hers, a place he glimpsed as so windsome and mysterious he would drink her down in great gulps if he could. Only a fool would try that. Either she was the shiest girl he'd ever met, or someone had scared her, a former boyfriend maybe, or family, if her grandfather gave any clue to their dynamics. Miranda said that uncle who died at the bridge was rough too. Across the slab, she raised a board to eye level, citing its span for warps. "Who are you, Hildy Nybo?" high noon and as forecast pushing past 80 in the shade, Luke heaved another sheet of plywood onto the roof and Hildy snugged it into place. Was the woman even human? Not a trace of sweat on her and he was dripping, stinking. Enough of this. How deep's the water under that swing? Hildy looked toward the river, slow to answer. Eight, maybe 10 ft. Gets shallower midstream. Perfect. you in? He dropped his cap and jumped to the ground, unbuckled his tool belt and draped it on a saworse, stuffed socks into one boot and emptied his jeans pockets into the other. She drove another nail. "You go ahead," she said. But when he stripped off his shirt, she skittered down rungs, birthed him wide, and trotted toward her cabin without a look. When he rounded the studio, the half-opened blinds at her windows wiggled and clamped shut. "Oh well." He hobbled barefoot on gravel and patchy grass to the bank, sent his thoughts from Hildy to the water, and grabbed the swing. Airborne, he whooped, then plunged deep into the clear, delicious river, the delicious glacial river. Submerged, he saw trees and a cabin's log walls, and Hildy, all bending in the watery lens as he swam upward. He surfaced, gasping from the cold, and looked again as she carried a cage onto her porch, lowered it to a shady table, and sat beside it, her feet propped on the low rail. "You could have warned me about the icebergs." He treaded below her, his kicks awkward in the soggy jeans. She smiled as he swam to shore. You bring a towel? Figured I'd drip dry. Could take a week. She disappeared inside, returned with a bath towel, and tossed it over the rail. Banter from the girl, a broad beamed smile, a pretty one, too. A crack in that tough little nut. And he liked what he saw through it. Careful, man. Don't get ahead of yourself. This had to be good for both of them, not all about him like it was when he talked Eden into a life on the boat so they could be together. He'd told her, then deluded himself into believing she loved the water as much as he had, never mind that she'd been seasick for a year. What a goon. thinking his wife would want to raise two babies without a shred of grass for them to play on unless they stopped in a port that had lawns. He'd offered his daughters no bicycles or swimming pools or consistent playdates or once they got older normal school or for months on end church with other families. Their life had even excluded connection with his wife's close friends. He'd been dumb enough to believe her when she told him he was all she needed. Yeah, she'd always made the best of their life together. not like her to fake things either. The woman had jumped in with both feet, deciding to delight, her word, in how he provided for them, even as she delighted in homeschooling their daughters, and it crushed him to say, in him. Sure, his drive to protect and care for them had served his family well,

But his ambition was another animal entirely. Gh, he'd been blind as a bat before they'd died. Then hindsight had stripped his self-centeredness to its skiibbies. Grief had finished the bearing. He'd stay in the wheelhouse this time, on high alert for his own myopia, for submerged logs of egotism and appetite. No illusions on this goound, if it even became one. Ignore those dead heads and they'd sink him and anyone he brought close. No more. Never. So help me God.

Hildy busied herself with a cage while he dried his hair and skin and wound the terry cloth like a twist tie around each leg, squeezing water from his jeans. He climbed the bank toward her porch and caught sight of the bird. "Thought you lived alone," he said. "I've had him since college, going on 12 years now. Didn't know Canary's lived that long." "Yeah, he's old, but another 2 or 3 years wouldn't be strange." Her lips puckered and she kissed at the bird. I wish he'd live forever. To be that bird right now. I'd bank on it if I were you. Her snapping eyes. How's that? If that little wonder isn't made new and the creator reboots things. I've been hugging the wrong tree. As in all things made new. A restatement, not a question. He hit a smile. Yeah, a big new. mighty enough to heal all the crap we've lived through. Where'd you learn that verse? Dad took me to Aana for years. Where you cleaned up on those memory badges, I'm guessing. I have a few. I couldn't keep a lot of things straight back then, but I could memorize. She shifted the cage so sunlight reached it. The bird swiped chaff from his beak on a perch. Got to be more to that story. Another kiss to the canary. No sign she'd heard. You believe them? His fingers combed damp hair to the side. Believe what? Those promises you memorized. Those verses. Hildy sighed. I want to need to said I would. But he propped forearms on the rail. But nothing. But what? Hildy. She sank deeper into the chair's faded cushions. Her hands ran the length of the wooden armrests until her elbows locked. When she didn't answer, he again ran fingers through his drying hair, then turned toward his truck. Turned back when he heard her. I don't know. Stuck, I guess. Seems to me I should see more power in those promises. Maybe that's one of the reasons I came home to the Elwa. A gamble. But if that river can be restored, it would help me a lot to see something made new. He ran a palm along the mossy rail. "Well, Miranda's studio's a good start." Her quick smile was unguarded. "But I'm going to eat first," he said. He draped the towel on the railing. "See you in 30."

Luke closed his lunchbox as a rusty Ford towed a skiff past cabin 1. Hildy joined him at his truck, hands pressed to her ears. "Ouch, that muffler." He finished his apple and tossed the core in a bucket. I'd lay odds he has a Harley in his garage. He flicked a wrist as if revving a throttle, then watched the elderly man drive past. More like a 57 Chevy he bought new. If that's Corore Visbeek, I built a garage for it. He lowered his tailgate, dawned work gloves, and sent the old man a two-fingered wave. Hildy peered after the truck and boat. I remember him. Another regular. June said, "We're full up with long timers the next few weeks, both sides." Her line of sight went to three more cabins across the river near a rustic, low roofed structure. Mostly fishing guests now, but square dancers show up Memorial Day weekend. Good for Miranda's opening. How many come for that? A bunch. They reserve cabins a year ahead, but with Miranda and mine out of play, there'll be more tents and RVs. Otis rents portaotties and they shower in the laundry building or at the dance hall or jump in the river with soap, right? I've seen that. Sounds like a hoot. When you were a kid, you ever go? Yeah, but we worked too. Mom handled the store and rentals here. Dad, Tess, and I ran the kitchen at the hall, tended the campgrounds, kept an eye on things. So, you didn't dance? I don't dance at all. Unfathomable. When she winced, he pulled the shingles from his truck bed, wishing he'd held his tongue. "You roofed before?" Her hammer tapped her palm. "Of course you have."

Chapter 14. Hildy Cedar. When he asked again, Hildy snatched a shingle from Luke and pounded the roofing nail too hard, her mouth a thin wire. I said, "I don't dance." He lowered his hammer. Whoa. Whoa. He caught her tools claw on an upstroke. Last I heard, square and dancing weren't fighting words. Neither was a man surprised that you didn't partake. What gives? She shrugged, tried to rest the hammer, but he held firm. Nothing, she said. Nothing. I don't work that way, Hildy. With paid workers, volunteers, friends, enemies, with anybody. Life's too short. Her head jerked as she saw it escape. Finch on the lookout. Otis teased every time she did that. She wished she could fly now. The ladder behind Luke, a jump from the roof, neither feasible. Silence, her third most practiced option, seemed appropriate. A minute passed. By the second, she knew she was sweating and not from the heat. Luke had come too close. Sniffed out history she'd tried to bury. Unless she wanted a scene she'd have to answer. Hot and tired is all. Going too slow. He rolled back onto elbows, his legs straight. Midday heat activated and lifted the fragrance of cedar shingles between them. Along the river, sparrows sang to mates. What else? His ice cream cokes. soothing. My dad had two left feet. He stretched onto the felt underllayment, lowered the cap brim, shading his eyes, and looked at her, waiting. Dad loved music, but couldn't sing or dance or play an instrument to save his life. Which caused a problem? She inhaled sharply and nodded. How did he? And it affected you, am I right? I don't want to assume. Yes, mom danced all the time. I hated watching her. Hated how she taunted him. Fine hair on her arms stood on end. Had she just betrayed her mother aloud? Why was she telling him this? Luke lay back on the incline, his face to the sky. Islands of river water still darkened his jeans. I hear you, Hildy. He does. With twitching fingers, she checked the plate under her straw hat, pulled cotton sleeves to her wrists against sunburn, and adjusted her sunglasses, glad for dark lenses that let her watch him. She braced for his next comment, fearing a word from him would undo the gift in those four words. He swept hands at swallows chittering overhead, folded them at his belly, and closed his eyes. Who needs the radio? Unobserved, she studied his thick shoulders and felt a fleeting urge to touch those folded hands. No, to hide from them. No, not from them, but from this confusing man who helped her forget that she couldn't remember. She slid a sliver of broken shake under her hatband like a feather. The day's momento for her pencil cup. Who needs what radio? He sat up, receated his hat, and pointed at the swallows. Don't need one. Good music right there. Better those birds singing than me. When it comes to carrying a tune, I guess I relate to your dad. Dancing's a different story, though. I've even danced while cleaning fish and in my dreams alone with a partner. She snatched another shake from the bundle. He laughed. More fun with a partner. He slid the wide slabs between them. Aren't these beauties? I cut them from an old growth cedar bolt some old-timer left in my barn. got 50 years plus in them on a roof. Why use them here? Her fists relaxed and opened. Back to work. Because we have them today, because we can. I did enough hoarding for just in case in my old life. Stuff, emotions. Don't get me wrong, I pay attention, plan, but stingy doesn't work for me anymore. I'd roof this shed with gold for Miranda if I had it. Longing punched her. Who would roof anything with gold for her? Think I could take a shake home then? Sure, but why? They smell so good. She'd hang the shake above her bed between that 1907 bulk nailer and that steel square if there was room. The wood's scent would help her remember. Quitting time. She tucked a straight grain slab under her arm and surveyed the new roof. Luke threw scraps in a pile. We'll finish the ridge in the morning. If we work late tomorrow, we can hang the plywood on all three walls and get the place wrapped before you ditch me. Ditch you? I He raised his hands in surrender and smiled. Good help's hard to find, you know. Who'd have guessed my competition would be a river. Too large for the crowded wall above her bed. The aromatic shake stood propped against her lamp, already marked with the number she also jotted beside the briefer than normal day's entry. Her hands and mind gone quiet after a few short lines. Cabin one at 6:30 a.m. Roofing with Luke. Luke on rope swing at lunch. Dad, mom dancing. Luke said he heard me. At quitting time the next evening, she stood by his truck where Luke's elbow jutted from the window that framed him from the chest up. Will you just look at that? Sheetated and wrapped in record time. Hildy glanced at the studio, then unbuckled her tool belt. With their project nearly finished and her river work beginning, would she see him again? Not like this. When she shivered, Luke's eyebrows crouched. You okay? Yeah, not really. He watched her, apparently unconvinced. What time you get off work tomorrow? I don't know yet. Stop by cabin 1 when you do. I may need my fave co-workers advice. Like calling an only child the favorite kid. All right, good. Best work days I've had in years, Hildy. And you get all the credit. I'll miss I'll miss your help. That night, she laid a numbered scrap of house wrap in her notebook as a bookmark and wrote, "Worked with Luke."

Chapter 15. Hildy Dave. The commotion of waking birds roused Butterness first. At 4:30 a.m., the bird's feet pinged the cage and woke Hildy, who knew he clung to vertical bars beneath his cage's cover, his head tilted to a chorus from the open window. Canacles, she thought, parsing the outdoor chirps and whistles of finches from those of chickies and sparrows, the chirups of gross beaks from those of robins. Wishing, little guy, she slipped from her bed, coralled her kinkedked, shiny hair into a loose rope, and checked the window screens for gaps. Pretend you're outside with them, she said, and unlatched the canary's gate. Butterness hopped to the opening and perched there, cheaping before he flitted. She silently reviewed her acquisition of each perch he chose. Boot, willow branch, hand drill, plane, paint roller, wool sock, and the year old hummingbird nest on that older branch. The canary pecked at a twig's lykan before he flew on. A yellow blip in the jungle on her walls. Then her crowded floor. Then two of her carved bedposts. Salmon raccoon, a yellow laser pointer, testing her recall. Such a memory hopper. Thank you, little bird. He sang from high on the wall while she changed his water, filled his seed, spread grit on a fresh floor. He flew to the cage top, and cocked his head. No hurry, Mr. B. It's my first day on the new job, so I'll be gone for a while. Stretch those wings while you can. An hour later, the bird entered the cage for the millet spray and a slice of apple she clipped inside. She snapped the door closed, blew the canary a kiss, and slung her daypack over her shoulder. When she stepped onto the shady grounds, June's head bobbed over her sink below sunrise draped foothills. Campsites stirred with anglers. At the lane's far end, fishing lines bent into the lake from the dock, and boats like insect feelers. That dazzling, awful lake. Was she jealous? Who wouldn't be? How many times had that reservoir won over her mother? Its peacock water, a siren call that trumped her, Tessy, and dad. A soup of feelings she didn't understand and couldn't describe washed over her. She swiped hands down her body as if she could shed them. then hurried back to cabin one, perusing the new du wet roof until her breathing calmed. Luke would return with his tools soon. She pressed fingers to the stapled house wrap, tapped a saworse, then straddled it while she relived the last 5 days. Miranda, the sawing, the rope swing, the hammering, the words. A beep at 6:30. She pulled her phone and read the text from Dave Cloud, likely up before she was utading to the estuary now. Meet you there if you can come early. Luke waved when they passed on the highway. His truck retreated in Hildy's rearview mirror above her bright red cheeks. Her foot touched the brake and released it, and she sped toward the reservation. Minutes down Place Road, she parked, hiked to the estuary, and waved to a man in chest waiters. Tall, gangly Dave clouds splashed toward her, his arms spread in a disproportionate wingspan. His spananiel looked up, then returned to nosing rocks. "You know what Ben says about all this." He had the good sense not to hug her, and she was glad. No other greeting either. Just Dave, immersed in the consuming passion of his life. "Tell me." That before long our salmon will swim the river's length again. that they'll slap their tails in the shallows and lie on their sides digging nests, laying eggs in those reds. I see them too, Hildy. Every species shooting through those emptied reservoirs, Chinooks spawning in the headarters. A mental clip from 15 years earlier played in her brain, and she saw Clum Elder Ben Charles Senior's eyes crimp with hope for the Elwa, despite the fact that the tribe had convinced Congress to restore their river. By then, three years had passed since the 1992 Elwa Act, and those dams still blocked fish passage. She had needed Ben's unwavering confidence to bolster her own. "You've been here in a while?" Dave asked. Behind him, the Ela spilled into the straight of Juan Deuka. "Not for years. Early college," she remembered the date. I figured best way to help you start this job is to reintroduce you, show you this beach, then the dams firsthand. See them through the education and experience you've acquired since you left here." He pointed at a heron, stalking shallows bedded with grapefruit sized stones. "You can see why fish have trouble down here. Those reservoirs are flatout constipated with sediment that belongs in this stretch of river." He flipped a large rock with his heel. "We don't draw spawners with rocks this big. The heron lifted on slow motion wings and they watched the bird pass. "Not much woody debris either," Dave said. "How can Smolt hide from big boys like that?" Her eyes swept the river's mouth where chneled sand bars that should have sheltered the estuary were conspicuously absent. "Any clams left?" Crabs? A handful. But with the first dam only 5 miles up river, what would you expect? This habitat's been starved for a century. There's enough sediment behind those dams to stack a football field 3 miles high, though. Just wait till a few million metric tons of that stockpile wash down here. When the water clears, oo we happy beach, happy seabed. Fish won't be able to breathe in that silt, Dave. Species mortality. Another reason for the hatchery. And before the demolition crew dynamites anything, we'll sling load CO up river by helicopter and release them midreach above Lakewell where they can access Little River and Indian Creek. Clean tributaries, gravel spawning beds. Indian Creek. Hildy saw her mother, 30 years younger, waiting the shallow stream, picking the water crest she mixed into salads. We'll implant transmitters in those fish, right? a given, but she had to ask. Right, we'll track them. He shoved a stick between stones. And yeah, death rates will be ugly for a while. They'll dismantle the dams in increments, but even pulsing the water's release, sediment will clog gills, stress filter feeders. No way to avoid losses until the river stabilizes. Gulls stood one-legged on the coarse shore, their beaks aimed into wind stirring chop on the straight. Hildy waited the flood plane, assessing that baseline data you've accumulated so far. Fish counts, habitat. You've got it for me. Years and years worth flash drives on my desk. She raised field glasses to the far shore. Where have you been setting up your sonar? Dave laughed. Up river, where the cameras can read the whole span. At least we've got two of them. 70,000 bucks a piece, and we park them on ladders. Numbers seem to be accurate, though. I'll have you monitor those counts. Duly noted, she said. A nearshore fog bank wafted inland, gauzing river and sky. Hildy shivered in the marine air as she scanned the water for young fish. It's like a graveyard out here. For now, he said, "Let the dream propel you, Hildy." He shaped index fingers and thumbs to frame the straight. Picture it like the early 1900s. A million wild fish sniffing their way home to the Elwa. Pink so thick they bump each other onto shore. It happened once, Dave. That count was an exception. He dropped his hands and turned to her earnest. Destroy that 100 ft blockade, then the 200footer at Blinds. I'm morphing a movie line here, but if we rew it, they will come. He seemed more certain than she that fish numbers would surge again. Every year now, only two to 5% of the historically typical 400,000 salmon returned from the ocean, and those numbers were mostly propped up by hatcheries. This whole effort was a high odds gamble. I've met my share of naysayers, Dave. Some think no matter what we do, this river won't amount to more than a museum fishery. Yeah, yeah, like runy bison at tourist stops. He tapped his watch. Time to prove them wrong. Follow me to the office. I'll load you up with bedtime reading before we head up river. Fingers to teeth, he whistled. The dripping dog splashed to them from the opposite bank, shook, and leapt into the ancient jeep's passenger seat. Minutes later, Hildy walked through the foyer of the Clum Trib's natural resources building to a long hallway and Dave's window lined office. Elevation maps of the Elwa Valley and Olympic National Park, photos of field teams, and posters of each of the rivers 10 seagoing fish runs spanned his walls, unchanged since her internship as a UW junior. As if I were here last week, she said, "Even your dad's Marine Corps will camp Pendleton 1953, if I remember right." A small smile bent her lips. "Isn't that Jeep getting tired?" "What don't you remember?" but the serial numbers stowed away in that big brain of yours, too. He pllopped behind his heaped desk and passed her a thumb drive. "Got a paper file for you here somewhere." While Dave riffled through folders, Hildy browsed his walls and paused at a framed yellow document. "Aha, there it is." She tapped the glass, traced the Elwa River Ecosystem and Fisheries Restoration Act with a pinky. He looked up from an open file drawer. "It's why you're here, my friend. Signed by HW on October 24th, 1992 with no idea where the money would come from. Happiest day of my life. Almost 18 years ago. Hasn't happened yet. Dave, it will. If you'd witnessed all those polarized groups deciding the dams had to go, you'd have a lot more confidence. I tell you, Hildy, the way they listened and heard each other was a real miracle. and to reach a consensus on how to save the fishery. Think of it, a consensus, even from mill owners who profited from the dam's electricity. Of course, ongoing licensing problems leveraged them. And the Elwa Act promised compensation for pricier wattage from the city of Port Angeles, but they eventually came on board, too. Unbelievable. He wagged his head, clearly still amazed, to have all parties agree to demolish those dams. two functioning hydroelectric dams. Nothing short of amazing. When they took the vote, every single player agreed that healing the river was worth the cost of removal. Healing worth the cost. Right under my nose when I was in high school, but I had no clue. Dad was missing in the mountains. Most didn't. Dave said, "Who paid? How'd they afford it?" They couldn't afford it. Still can't, but they're determined to find the funds. Private and government monies have moved around, but not nearly enough yet. Demolition and rehab may cost upwards of 350 million bucks by the time everybody hangs up their shovels. She sat, tapped her armrests. That much, huh? At least. Hope we're in time. A Hildy, those native genetics in our hatchery, national park habitat, our stockpile of native plants for those lake beds, the way nature heals. Come on. You know those fish will be back. How long do you think it'll take? Projections are all over the place. Hard to say. A restoration of this scope is uncharted territory. For the tribe's sake, I hope it's sooner than later. When their moratorium goes into effect next year, nobody will fish in that watershed until enough of those salmonids return. Dave's voice rose. You can learn a lot about patience from the tribe. Sure, we're champing at the bit, but healing's in sight, Hildy. We've got to give the river every possible chance to recover. He was making her nervous. You don't have to convince me, Dave. As a kid, I watched salmon slam concrete every year trying to jump that dam, then swim loops and die at the base while tankers drove through our campground and dumped trout into the reservoir. Trout. Thousands at a time for crying out loud. While mom rode the lake with that scary shadow in her boat. Yeah, so many trout. Not the bear's first choice, but better than nothing, and rainbows fed a lot of king fishers, osprey, eagles, he snorted. And those herand. He shuffled more papers, then waggled a thick manila file folder. Got it. His eyes shone with the small triumph. Everything you'll need to bring you up to speed. If the data is not on that thumb drive, you'll find it in here. Wade through it, and I'll shoehorn you right in. Team members have read your work, so expect an open arms reception. Oh, she wished she could work alone. No welcome party. He suppressed a laugh. You know me better than that. Just our regular meetings. Apart from those, you can slither wherever you like, Illgirl. If you don't want one-on- ones, email works. Just get the job done and I'll be happy as Frodo here. Stretched flat on the rug, the dog slapped his tail twice. Got to say, Hildy and Ibo, working my job and yours for the last couple of months has been tough, but I'd do it again if it meant getting you here. He handed her a key to your office, end of the hall. Unless you'd prefer Grand Central. The one right next to mine's open, too. You know me better than that, Dave. Figured as much. Ready to see the beasts? I'll drive.

Chapter 16. Hildy Tour. Froto leapt to the driver's seat. Dave tapped the dog to the jeep's rear, snagged a towel from a footwell, and wiped the cushions. While the Spaniel panted behind them, he shifted into gear and watched the road. Hildy, however, took in the reservation's mobile homes and mossy ranch houses in damp alder groves, where children's toys mingled with crab pots, driftboats on trailers, and larger boats on blocks, their holes green with algae and waiting. Fishing nets, their elliptical floats strung like berries, draped from large racks inside yards or from porches or the eaves of cavernous metal shops. Lives on hold, she thought. They turned up river and she shifted her gaze to the Elwood Dam, once the heartbeat of the early Port Angela settlement. Its concrete jammed the steep gorge where generators still hummed like a wild hive. On the walkway at the dam's crest, she gripped the chainlink barrier midspan and peered over the downstream edge. "For all its heft, this thing looks kind of rickety," she said. Dave bumped his heel as if testing the walkway for rot. It does leak, you know. There were shortcuts in construction from the outset. Builders didn't reach bedrock the first time they built it. The thing failed almost as soon as the water rose. Next goaround, the foundation seeped. A wonder it's held all these years. She knew the history. Bet that collapse was wild. I'll say it blew out from the bottom. Cost overruns for replacement almost ate Thomas Alwell's lunch. Too bad he didn't quit after that first breach. He tapped his phone and handed it to her. Yeah, what a bulldog. Gutsy coming all the way here from Toronto thinking this territory was his to conquer. The guy crawled the valley for 20 years buying land cheap. Believed if dams could power Port Angeles and points beyond, he'd vault the peninsula out of the stone age. He fought hard to get his hands on those canyons. Hildy scrolled photos of Alwell's welldocumented life. homesteader, merchant, entrepreneur. Different mindset back then. Think of it, Dave. No fish ladders in either dam. They weren't part of his equation. In those days, if a few salmon died for the sake of progress or a bottom dollar, oh well, plenty more where those came from. Hildy sighed and turned to the walkways upstream fence. past the log boom barrier that distanced boats from the spillways. The reservoir ran aqua to a forested bend. She watched Violet row past that jog from up lake for years, convinced she'd never see her mother again. She shuddered and forced her thoughts to Luke's happy drop from the rope swing. We have one more year to wrap up our final readings, Hildy. The more documentation we have pre- removal, the better our post removal analyses will be. A year, 10 years, 50 years from now, we're writing the manual for river reclamation everywhere. Hopefully those making ecosystem decisions at the top will agree. Hildy pinched her braid. I took the USGS job to avoid politics, Dave. To gather data and present it without manipulation. To help fish by letting facts speak. Precisely what we'll be doing. And it's sure going to be fun. Now, let me show you a few things here before we head up to Glinds. When they rounded the curve toward the Elwa Bridge, Dave slowed at the turn to the upper dam. Hildy craned in her seat, intent on a glimpse of the studio and Luke's cap and curls. "Need to stop at your place?" Dave asked. "No thanks. Checking progress on a new building is all." "At your resort? Why on earth?" "It's a gift." She folded into her seat as he turned onto Olympic Hot Springs Road for a renter's little brother. A studio for her for a year or two. Pretty nice gift. You better cover their eyes when the excavator shows up. They know the clock's ticking. Dave accelerated past Madison Falls trail head and the pack mule barns. More familiar landmarks fell behind them as he drove deeper into national park foothills thick with old conifers. Tumbling from headwaters in the rugged Olympics, the Elwa sprinted headlong in and out of view. And then Glind's Dam. Hildy whistled low when they reached the spillway overlook. So tall gets me every time. Concave against the glacial water of Lake Mills. The structure sealed narrow, jagged Glind's Canyon in an imposing ark over 200 ft, twice the Ela's height. The raisings will be the biggest dam removal project in US history. He cleared his throat. Sorry. You know all that. I'm used to giving tours to dignitaries. It's going to be a mess, Dave. A controlled necessary mess, but yes. Blue green water from Lake Mills sleuth the spillways and tumbled in a series of turning curtains to the boiling river below. Mist shrouded the canyon walls. Hildy snapped photos of the lake, the dam, the precipitous drop. You have baometric maps for me, shoreline samples, watershed assessments, mid-reache fish counts from here to Lake Old on that little drive in your pocket. She followed his gaze to two blacktailed deer hawk deep in the reservoir. Scientists from the Noah and some of your former colleagues from the USGS arrive next week. Come July 1st, the river will be crawling with research teams from all over. You and I will coordinate inter agency efforts, direct traffic, and join them with our team from the lower Elwa tribe. Another snorkel surveys planned for late August, so get your gear up to speed. I want your eyes and brain in that river, Hildy. I can do that. Her heart was already there. Frodo snorted at the windows gap as they returned to the jeep. Hildy plucked and smoothed a brown and white flight feather from the side of the road and tucked it in her fleece, noting details for her diary. "Osprey?" Dave asked. "Yeah, decor for my new office, unless you turn me in for keeping it." He laughed. "I've got a few more you can have." After work, Hildy trained her gaze on the clicking gas pump meter, determined to avoid an awkward crosslot hello to Luke. Only when she flipped off the lever and receded the nozzle, did she finally glance at cabin 1. New openings for windows and doors yawned from the sheetated exterior, but Luke's and Miranda's parking spaces stood empty. Her shoulders sagged, gone home. She replaced her tank's cap and drove the short span to her cabin where June was crossing the grass from cabin 3. A bucket of cleaning supplies on her arm. Hildy waited for her at the porch. He left already. June pinched a smile. If you're looking for Otis, he's sprucing up the dance hall. Shindig's only a few weeks off now. Hildy felt her skin go pink. I didn't mean Otis. June elbowed her and giggled. Won't kill you to say his name, sweets. He went to get something to eat. I told him I'd fix him a burger, but he declined. Said he'd be back by 4:30 to wrap up. Hildy checked her watch. She had time to freshen up. Maybe he still needed help. You go. Put your feet up until he gets here, girl. Oldie didn't move. After I say his name. What then? Juny. I'm out of practice. June studied her for a moment. Ask him a question or two. Near as I can tell, the man's an open book. Regardless, I'm sure he'll be happy to see you. To see me, not just have me work with him. Hild frowned. I'd better check my bird. You do that. Just don't lock yourself in there. I bet Luke will want to show you everything he accomplished today. Sure looks nice. Hild's hand was on her latch when June called from the road. How was your day, girl? Job good. Job's good, she said, and slipped inside. By 4:30, she'd brushed her teeth, run a warm washcloth over her face, and hurriedly rebraided. By 4:35, she'd tuned the radio to music for Butterness, and was peeking through slats when Luke's truck rolled into the yard. When late sun struck him through the broken clouds, an electric wave rolled from her chest and raised the temperature in her face and neck. She swigged water, dawned sunglasses. Then she jumped from her porch and walked to cabin 1 to see if she could help. He stopped walking when he saw her and smiled, arms at his sides. Hey, you're home. How'd your first day go? Even through dark lenses, she felt him meet her eyes. She stepped backwards, rubbed her elbows. "Okay, nice, actually. I hoped it would be," he said. His attention spot lit her, made her squirm. "You stay in the office or get outside." Her tongue wouldn't move. He hiked his eyebrows and looked away, then raised an arm toward the studio in slow motion like she would to avoid startling Butterness. "Finished a few things out here today. Got to say, I missed hearing your hammer. Want a quick tour? Her held breath escaped. Sure. He waved her through a second entrance, knew since morning, took her shoulders and guided her to mid room to views through openings on three walls, then swiveled her to the pass through he'd cut into the original cabin. His hands on my shoulders. That's spin. She'd write them down. Windows and doors arrive tomorrow so we can zip the place up. More rain coming by Thursday. Seems bigger with those cutouts, she said. Doesn't it? Miranda's pretty happy with the ambient light. He towed a bundle of insulated wire on the floor. I ran a line from that new breaker box for some display lighting and outlets. Might get to those by Friday. I like it. What else could she say? Fingers found her braid. She pushed a hair pin deeper. Felt for wisps. I'm done for today, though. My stomach's been growling for an hour. You hungry? Come to think of it, she was. But why was he? Hadn't June said he'd gone for food? Hildy followed him outside. I guess thought you might be. Got a couple of Subway footongs in my truck if you'd like one. A whole foot. Kind of you. Thanks. I can send it home with you or you can join me if you want. I thought I'd hike to Madison Falls to eat. Nice walk. Change of scenery. I used to ride bikes there with my dad, she said. Haven't gone since. About time then, don't you think? She pulled a twig from her pocket and pretended to study it. Uh, sure. A new smile split his cheeks. Good deal. Let's go. I'm going to fall over if I don't get some food in me. She touched her sunglasses. Wished the lenses were darker. We can eat here if you'd rather not wait. Oh, I'm exaggerating. It's only 2 miles. He grabbed a subway bag from his truck console, held at a loft, and tipped his head at the mountains. Come on, we'll be there in no time. Food will taste better in that little Glenn. A hike and a sandwich. Something to do. She waved shily to June at her window and matched his strides. At the highway, she fell into step beside him, and when he didn't start blabbing, didn't ask questions, she relaxed. as when they'd framed or roofed or sheetated, he was so easy. Comfortable whether or not either of them spoke. Such a relief. For the next mile and a half, she heard only bird song, the river's clatter of water over stones, and the slap and scuff of feet on the two-lane Olympic Hot Springs Road she'd traveled with Dave earlier that day. At the trail head, Luke turned from the pavement to the river 50 yards off. The waters earlier gray now azure with the clearing sky. That riverbed will sure change when those dams are gone, won't it? Would it ever? Everything will change. She cringed. All the times she'd taught ecosystem restoration, and now she was stuttering. Her tongue felt downright [ __ ] If he pressed her to explain, ask him a question or two. Above the buzz in her ears, she heard June whispering from her kitchen. Okay. Okay. Her exhale blew from puffed cheeks. June said you're a commercial fisherman. Used to be. So, you know the life cycle of salmon, right? More or less. I know they return to home rivers anywhere from 18 months to 8 years after they go to sea. and that I like liked to have lines in the water when they headed there. He looked at her quizzically. Why are you asking? She rung her hands suddenly overcome with the importance of what she wanted him to understand. Because opening this river will let them do that. Let those fish return here after so so long away. After they breach those dams and the grit washes out of those reservoirs and resettles in the riverbed and the estuary and straight, and after sediment quits clogging the water, our beautiful salmon will find their way home for the first time in a hundred years. 100 years, Luke at her sudden, passionate gush of words. Luke feigned being blown backwards, his shoulders and elbows upraised, his mouth an o. Oh yeah, now we're talking. Was she ever? She felt herself blush, over wrought. She thought she might cry when she looked at him. Thought she might grip those musly arms of his and leave bruises of emphasis. And they'll bring the ocean back to the mountains. Do you know what that means? At that moment, she didn't care that this was the first man she'd wanted to spend time with since Cole. Didn't care that her attraction to him made her stutter. Didn't care if this speech of hers drove him away. She only wanted him to understand. And if this man who said, "I hear you," on that studio roof, heard or cared at all about anything, she wanted him to care about this river and the wonder of its fish. "Maybe I don't, Hildy. Tell me." A fast inhale before she squared to face him. And though she braced herself for resistance, she'd never seen eyes kinder. Those fish will fight rapids and leap cataracts to get upstream. Some all the way to the river's beginning to lay those eggs of theirs. Carnivores will feast on those spawners and grow stronger, and the animal scat will carry sea minerals into the forest to help the trees. Fish will die in those reaches, and their bodies will make birds healthier and other fish bigger, and their offspring will grow in the river. Her lungs heaved as if she'd been running. The ecosystem will function as it did before those dams cut it to pieces. Abruptly self-aware, she swallowed, slowed. That's the short version. But everything everything about the Elwa will be better. I believe you. His expression concurred. I don't understand it like you do, but I want to. I'd like to see that healing. She hoped he would. A sigh pressed from her belly, and she went quiet again. But the flood light of his attention waited for more from her. She groped for another question. You don't fish at all now. Why not? Luke scrubbed his beard. For all our tiptoeing so far, you sure cut to the chase, don't you? Her brows knit. How? What did Oh, his career change came after his family. Now she'd done it. Luke, I I I'm so sorry. I was just trying to He sloughed a weary laugh. She hung on it. Hoped he wasn't angry. then felt certain he was. Her fish lecture then this. She turned to go. He caught her arm. I don't mind, Hildy. You surprised me as all. He scanned the sky as if reading it, searching for words. You don't have to. Yeah, I do. He hoisted the paper bag toward the woods. What do you say we walk a quarter mile that direction first, though? Let a little food and the beauty up there fortify us both before you hear it. I'll spare you too many details, but there's nothing pretty in the short version either. He opened the bag and looked inside, then raised his head to catch her gaze. I take that back. The rescue was breathtaking.

Chapter 17. Hildy, history. Hildy plunged past the airy foliage at the Madison Falls trail head. Please, Luke, don't tell me. If he wanted a confessor to ease his mind, she wasn't his girl. She hurried ahead of him into thick-bodied furs, maples, hemlocks, and cedars, their limbs and arbor above the trail. Shade loving trillium, their white and pink blooms a constellation on the forest floor. Infilled crowds of understory sword ferns and vine maples, snowberry and red oer dogwood. The fairy land around her and the waterfalls white noise did little to soothe her. When they rounded the bend, worry blinded her to the 50-foot cascade. Luke strolled into the Mosial Cove after her and sat on a damp bench. When he offered a sandwich, she took it and paced. She blamed June. Hadn't the woman pressed Hildy to talk to the man? What a tin of worms. And Hildy had tossed the lid by asking stupid questions. Luke tapped the rough wood beside him. Here, no need to wear yourself out. We still have to walk back, you know. Arms crossed. She stood feet away, scowlling as he bit his sandwich, chewed, then rewrapped the unfinished food and returned it to the sack. He again patted the bench. When Hildy perched stiffly, he set the open bag between them. Got some chips in there in case you change your mind. Her fingers twitched to write all this or to pluck something, anything, from the clear pool at the foot of the tumbling water. But Luke's nearness immobilized her. Working together was one thing, but sitting beside him with zilch to distract her, to occupy her hands, with nothing to do. Luke, please don't. 5 years ago. Remember when your brother-in-law went out on his own, bought those boats? He stretched arms on the bench's back rest, laid an ankle on his knee. Yeah. She snatched a bag of chips, tore it open with her teeth. Better a girl. Don't want you wilting on me. He pinched a fallen chip from her knee. She tracked it to his mouth, composing her day's entry. On bench at Madison Falls, dropped a potato chip. Luke took it from my knee. Bingo bought those boats from me. A scull escaped his nose. Not exactly a fleet, only three of them. One's a charter. The other two trollers, but with the sport business and commercial contracts, it's a good gig. He's done well with it. That day at her table, June had said bingo approved Luke's sale had called it fair. But did she mention the buyer? I didn't know you sold to him. I'd have given everything to him the state I was in. Bingo's a good man. Did right by me. paid market value with a buyback option in case I changed my mind. He hoped I'd return to the sea, fish with him again. Didn't finalize his ownership for three years. She crunched a chip. Too loud. Cringing, she shot Luke a look as her saliva pulled around the salty flakes. With her tongue, she rubbed the pieces small and swallowed as Luke shifted, crossed forearms onto knees, and frowned into his story. We'd fished for the better part of 20 years together by then. He knew how much I loved the water, the fish, the work, all of it. No need to explain. June told me your family died. He looked at her. Did she tell you how? Hildy shook her head. We lived on the safe seas, one of our trollers. My wife Eden, our two girls, and I. Quinny was six. And Lucy, he rubbed his nose. She turned four two days before I left. Babies, Hildy whispered. She tucked a calf under her thigh, her hand to her mouth, wishing his pain into the mossy cliffs. Where'd you go? As Adam's apple bobbed. Ah, only Hawaii. So why would they possibly want to go with me, right? I should have brought them along. Could have, you know. Thought I'd be too busy with all my meetings. Bigshotting all those fancy restaurants buying my fish. That snort again. He stared at the tumbling water. I killed them. Hildy. What? Didn't mean to, of course, but my fault just the same. The ship's upkeep was my responsibility, not Eden's. But with that trip coming up, he shrugged. I was too blasted preoccupied to check systems. Didn't pay attention. didn't tend simple details that would have saved them. His hands hung limp between his knees and he looked at the ground, too busy prepping for Hawaii to check the batteries in the monoxide detector. It got cold while I was gone, so Eden closed the port holes. Coroner figured they died an hour or two before I found them. Hildy pressed knuckles to tears, warm at the corners of her lids. Neither spoke for minutes. I lived like an animal after that. Shunned everybody who tried to help. Miranda, bingo, longtime friends from our home church in Forks. Blew them all off. I'd maybe had five or six beers in my life before then, but after the funerals, suffice it to say, the Bible didn't numb me, and I wanted to numb everything. So, when I ran into an old fishing buddy who let me bunk at his place in Clum Bay, we hit the bars hard. I drank around the clock. numb that she understood. I'm so sorry, Luke," she whispered. She felt the impulse to brush him with her sleeve as if fabric could wick the mess. Fast forward noonish, on the one-year anniversary of the funerals, Miranda and Bingo tracked me down at the hangup, a dive in forks, and hauled my wasted self to her place in Breton to dry out. I spent the year after that remembering who I was, who God was until I could dodge the accuser's hammer enough to start over. He shifted, rolled his shoulders. Still hurts though. Always will. Most likely. God can wash a person clean. Restore hope. But consequences can scar a heart up pretty bad. Accuser. I've got a long way to go, but I'm all in, Hildy. Not with some god I tap for favors, but with a living tsunami who raises the dead, who washed my sorry carcass onto a better road. He paused then, and Hildy sat in the spillway of his story. A response was impossible. He stared at the waterfall before he locked eyes with her, gave a small smile. So much for my icebreaker. Hildy shivered in the damp shade, rubbed her upper arms. So many years alone. So many years since she'd talked with anyone besides June or Otis about more than the scientific visible world. Quickened, she hunted for a reply, ashamed that her vocabulary about anything personal or spiritual had so atrophied since her dad died. Her voice squeaked. Faith was an elephant between my parents, the kind neither mentioned, at least in front of us. Mom went to church with us sometimes, but that's about it. If not for Otis and June when dad disappeared. They have what you're talking about. She rose, wandered past tree roots to the pool where she bent for a pebble and shoved it in her pocket. But trusts Kiki. Sudden and loud. A dozen staccato cries punctured the air. Out of nowhere, an enormous bird flew toward her fast. Startled, Hildy ducked the outstretched black talons. Luke appeared at her side as the raptor sailed into the trees. "Almost got you," he said. "Gosh hawk, big female from the size of that wingspan. 4 feet at least." "Yeah, her nest must be close."

Hildy scanned the trees, breathless from the attack. There, 40 ft up and as many feet distant, a twiggy nest bulged from a narrow crotch in the trunk. A few trees away, a flick of wings and a single longer hya drew their attention to the perching mother's gray streaked breast. Her banded tail feathers.

Luke eyed the trail. "We're on her turf. We'd better too late."

More screams signaled the bird's second launch straight for Hildy. Yellow orange eyes, the hooked beak, those yellow feet spread wide. Hildy gasped as black razor claws caught her braid and sliced her forehead. The impact knocked her backwards. Like a phantom, the raptor melted into the woods.

Warm ooze dripped past an eyebrow as Hildy got to her feet. Luke held her chin and lifted hair from the blood. "She got you all right." He studied the injury, tested its borders with thumbs. "Not deep enough for stitches, but you've sure got a bleeder. Hold on." He hurried for napkins from the subway sack, and dabbed. "Here, put some pressure on it. I'll take a better look when we're not in her bullseye. You okay to walk?"

Bears had chased her off rivers. "Yeah, good to go." Hovering, he steered her to the trail, then to a weathered cedar stump near the trail head. When he cradled her cheek, inspecting, she closed her eyes, smelled the salt of him, heard him swallow his breath, and the late sun brushed her as his fingers again tried the cut. "I have some butterfly bandages in my truck. I can snug up those edges."

She nodded, reluctant to budge. She had to finish telling him. "Trust's hard for me." She'd hold up with a canary for crying out loud. He pressed a fresh napkin to the wound and held it there. "Maybe I can help you with that."

"What?" She was only telling him, not asking for help. Alarmed, she pushed his fingers off the cut. "I've got it," she said, and without another word streaked down the trail. at the road. She stuffed the paper in her pocket and jogged until blood dripped from her chin.

Luke caught up to her when she stopped to tamp it. "Maybe I can't."

"Can't what?"

"Help you, but at least let me close that cut." She'd overreacted. "Okay." Without a butterfly from his truck, she'd have to drive to town for Sterry Strips. Sure, he could patch her up. But fixing her trust was a different issue entirely.

Chapter 18. Hildy. Evasion.

She didn't see Luke on Tuesday. On Wednesday, she left the resort before he arrived. That afternoon, she returned from work to drive straight past his truck, lock herself in her cabin, and peek through slats until he departed. Then she crept to the studio to try its new latch. Locked. She glanced at June's empty window, then hurried home and splashed water on her blazing cheeks.

When he left Thursday evening, she circled to the cabin's far side. Out of sight, she peered through a window at new electrical outlets and light fixtures, and imagined him installing the rustic, naughty plywood that covered three walls of the insulation pillowed studs. After he drove off on Friday, she lingered on his plum lines and the tongue and groove pine on the ceiling, and on the trim boards that lay across saw horses, their cuts precise.

Awake until 2:00 a.m. one night, 3 the next, she lay in her bed and heard him, saw him. Her skin remembered his careful fingers as he cleaned and closed the Goss's mark. with every recollection of his kindness, his story, his beliefs, and his interest in her. Events from her own history tightened her throat. But unlike all the other times they nearly choked her with anxiety, this time Luke was a porch light in their midst, and she a moth, unable to divert herself. "Maybe I can help you with that," he'd said. "Could he?" "Only one way to find out. But could she?"

Saturday morning, a truck's rumble woke her. Hildy tripped to the window, hugged her chest, and watched Luke stroll to the cabin next door. When he went inside, she dressed quickly, tended butter, and braided her hair so tight it hurt. Then she stared at herself in the mirror, nodded once, and strapped on her tool belt. ignoring the rubber in her legs, she walked to the studio.

Across the room, Luke measured a board, extracted a pencil from behind his ear, and scribbled on a wood scrap. She stood at the door until he looked up. "Hey." He chewed a lip and pondered her until she grew uneasy. Had a slow smile not risen into his cheeks, she'd have split. "How's the cut?" he said. He laid pencil and tape on a soul horse, but stayed where he was. She touched the scab. "Good." He squinted at it and moved closer. "May I?" "Uh, okay." Thumb to her forehead. He leaned in. She felt his breath on her cheek. "No infection," she said. "I see that." He stepped back and seemed to absorb her. She'd looked at fish like he was looking at her and at birds and flowers. She shifted. "Thought you could use some help. Could I ever? Got another job in Squim next week, but I'm determined to have this place ready in time. If we can wrap things up by May 20th, Miranda will have time to do a little decorating before those dancers get here. Okay. Think you can come after your workday? I can stay longer. Yeah. And the next couple of Saturdays? Yeah, sure."

She wouldn't think past the work they'd do here, or she'd faint. Had no clue how this would play out. Convinced herself to stop guessing. Through the window, she saw an Audi's hatch open to clay pots, flats of flowers, and potting mix. Miranda knocked on the glass. "Lkey, can you help me?"

"Oh, Hildy." Luke opened the window and pointed at the soulorse. "In a sec." Hildy hurried toward the door. "I can, Miranda."

They were unloading bags of soil and kneeh high clay flower pots when Tessa's SUV turned in from the highway. Hildy shaded her eyes for a clearer view when her burly brother-in-law slammed the driver's door. "Hey, little sister." Hildy dodged his hug. "No, Tess." Bingo ticked his head at his rig. "She sent a pie instead. Girls been cooking up a storm. Can you tell?" He pinched a belly roll through his shirt. "Last minute cancellation for my boat today, so she gave me a honey by list as my arm. I figured if I was making a Port Angeles run, I'd stop in for a read on Miranda's little project. Luke's been texting me updates."

Bingo, Brink. Miranda appeared around a corner and stepped into his beefy arms. He squeezed. She wriggled free, patted his head. "Bone crusher, come see Luke." Hildy would be a spare tire in there. She made a show of checking her watch. "You visit and I'll grab some breakfast. Back in a half hour. Tell Luke." Thumb on her latch. She heard Luke shout, "Bingo, son of a gun." Her door clicked closed behind her.

Chapter 19. Luke. Notes.

Luke clapped his old friend's shoulder as they crossed the studio. His closest friend who, along with Miranda, had saved him from himself. "Checking up on you, man." Bingo bent to an outlet. roved the walls like a house inspector, touched window casings. "It looks good. If id poured concrete for this place, I'd have scratched your name in the slurry."

"If not for you, I wouldn't be building anything."

"Returning the favor, bro. Don't forget, if not for you, old man Diller would have quit looking for me when that net pulled me overboard. Seize like that, I'd have been deepixed with the bottom feeders, and you know it."

"Mean old bugger," Luke wagged his head. "Ketchacan never looked so good. Never thought I'd jump anyone's ship. But that boat, that skipper should have listened when Dad tried to talk us out of going."

Outside the open door, Miranda tamped a geranium. "Ulisses paid you guys, right? Dad told me he tried to stiff you." A nod from Bingo. "Took a while, but yeah." Miranda jabbed her tel into the soft earth and talked past the jam. "Mom said he terrified Violet. I think Graham even reported him. But apparently feeding your child and getting her to school qualified you as a legit parent back then." She brushed potting soil from her hands. "After he screamed at Violet right in front of mom for leaving her toys outside in the rain, Graham insisted the girls play at her house under her supervision. Ulisses took offense, of course, and kaoshed any further contact."

Luke moved a ladder. "I bet mom missed her. It could be lonely out there."

"Yes." Miranda stared toward the highway. "Remember hide-and-seek? How we used that property line post in the woods as base? Mom said she'd spy on Violet from there, hoping she'd come close enough to talk. One day, Mom saw Ulisses and Violet's older brother, the one that died last winter, throw toys, books, clothes, even Violet's bike on the burn pile. When the old man torched them, Violet ran toward our place, but her brother caught her and hauled her back to Ulisses, who made his little girl watch."

Bingo scowlled. "Where was her mother?"

Miranda shrugged. "Who knows?"

"Meek as a mouse," Grammy said. "That man probably browbe her so badly she couldn't defend anybody, herself included. She got sick. Died early."

"I bet he did more than browbeat." Luke cited down a trim board. "When that man got mad. A little girl growing up with that had to affect Violet."

"You think mom ever had second thoughts about leaving us with her? I don't know. A lot of years had passed. Violet didn't have kids yet, but she must have seemed okay. You remember what her husband Lars was like, right? As kind as they come, they both were."

Bingo peeked out the door at Hildy's buttoned up cabin, then straddled the threshold and spoke low. "Something's not right in that family. Wouldn't want her to hear this, but that girl's packing some sort of hurt even her sister doesn't understand. Tess tolerates her mother at best. But you know, my Tessy's a strong one. She never let Violet get under her skin. Hild's different around her mother. She's raw. Got even worse after their dad disappeared."

"What got worse?" Luke asked.

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed. When you texted that she'd been helping you, I thought you were kidding. She went out with some guy her freshman year in college, but apart from Otis, Tess says she hasn't said more than two words to a man outside of work in who knows how long. Avoids most women, too. Doesn't trust anybody. Even worse, she's convinced she's losing her mind. Well, her memory at least, which makes no sense. Superstar biologist and all. My Tessy talks to her by phone, but otherwise Hildy even keeps her offshore. Go figure. Bet she won't invite either one of you inside of that little house of hers."

"Why is that?" Luke asked.

Miranda seated another flower in the pot and glanced toward Hildy's cabin. Bingo jingled change in his pocket. "Fort Knox, wherever she lives, she doesn't let anybody in."

"I like her, Bingo."

Miranda brushed her hands and stepped inside. Luke closed the door behind her. "I do too. That's what worries me."

Bingo gripped his friend's shoulder. "You watch that heart of yours, Luke Rimemer. There are other kinds of pain than the ones you've been through."

Luke considered the warning, but only briefly. Over the next two weeks, he caught himself counting hours until Hildy arrived to work beside him. During May evenings and two long Saturdays, while they finished the studio's floating floor, interior trim, board and batten siding, painting and shelves and counter laminate, he glimpsed her mind and heart, and here and there, pieces of her faith. He liked what he heard and saw and felt when he was with her. And apart from her skittishness, he found nothing he didn't. But that skittishness on May 17th he topped off Jangles's trough before the sun rose. "Moving day for Miranda, young lady. Won't see you till late. Got three trips to make from Lake Southerntherland to the river and it'll take a while." He scratched the longhorn between the eyes. "Fragile dishes for Miranda. Fragile everything with Hildy." Hadn't she warned him at the falls? The woman could flit away as quickly as she'd landed in his world. He understood Bingo's caution now. He didn't want to blow this them up. He really did like her. But if whatever bothered her was too much, if she couldn't trust him, couldn't open up more than she had so far, they were going nowhere. And if he couldn't trust her, he'd have no choice but to bow out.

Late afternoon, Miranda sliced packing tape on another box of plates at the studio. Her hand painted toes of clay ceramics sign hung between copper spinners on the eve fronting the highway. Luke was tightening the last rack of shelves when Hildy showed at a window. With an arm stretched toward the blooming pots and pin wheels on sticks, she wandered the studio perimeter. Then she came inside, pasted the kiln and potter's wheel and empty greenear racks in the original cabin to new shelves in the addition, each filled with displays of place settings and decorative bowls, serving platters and mugs. So many mugs. Sideelong, Luke watched her mouth their inscriptions. Ela River, Lakewell, Lake Mills, Olympic Peninsula. Heard her breathy laugh. "What's funny?" he asked. "This one." She raised a hefty mug. Etched in clay, ores hung from a skiff. He squinted the caption. "What's it say?" "R O E. Row your boat." Hildy coughed. Another laugh. "Ah, a closet punster." Miranda aimed a finger. "I've got your number now, Hildy. Nybo. And more word play where that came from. Puns. Who'd have guessed?" Luke pulled a smaller mug from the shelf. Below a school of fingerlings, he read, "We're practicing smolt talk." Hild's eyes lit, and she lifted another glazed green and etched with a hook-nosed salmon. A giggle, then "you're such a chum." "Game on." "Well, here you go, then." He plucked a blue one with two fish on it and set it at Hildy's eye level. "Hey, Gil, what's up?" Her lips pursed against a smile. Small, beautiful lips. Luke's face pinched at another. "So bad, mirrors. Where'd you get all these?" His sister shrugged. Hildy was fullon grinning now. Good sign. "Ring this one up for me, will you, Miranda?" He raised a smooth fishcoed mug, the aqua of Hildy's shirt. "Which one?" Miranda said. "Two fish on it. Caption: There's salmon for everyone." He held the mug toward his sister, then handed it to Hildy. "For you," he said. Her face went pink. Those river water eyes of hers darted left. "Uh-oh." He took the mug from her and set it on the counter. "Miranda and I thought we'd head to town for dinner. You want to come?" Was this the first time she'd looked straight at him without dodging? The silken skin at her throat rolled when she swallowed. "Yes," she said. "I'd like that."

Chapter 20. Hildy dance.

Memorial Day weekend began with shouts between cabins as friends from Seattle and Breton, Olympia and Muckleio reunited. And as more of the square dancers who'd booked campsites a full year ahead rolled into the Elwa Fishing Resort in vans and motor homes, while pickups towed travel trailers to both sides of the river, June welcomed more registrance at the store counter. Otis waved RVs into the field between the dance hall and the highway and directed tenters and boondockers into the woods. All of them, everyone arrived not for the trout or the boats or clear water swims, though few could resist eventually, but for the hall across the river, where 12 squares of eight dancers each, plus a collar and the usual tagalongs, would jam inside through the long weekend. A hundred or more would scuff that hardwood maple floor in the hall her dad had built before she could walk.

Hildy scanned the slew of vehicles at the studio. Luke should be here by now. Down the lane, a handlebar mustachioed man in cowboy boots and a Johnny Cash t-shirt raised a hand as she passed, then plugged an extension cord into a hookup site. Behind the man's RV, she spotted Luke's truck and darted to the busy studio to find him. Inside, Miranda boxed a mug for a noisy redhead. "I love, love, love your new shop," the woman said. Her perfume wafted when she patted Miranda's cheek. She bumped past Hildy, turned at the door. "Tomorrow I'll bring friends."

But Hildy didn't see Luke. The only man in the room handed Miranda his credit card and a sturdy mug read with a glam in dark relief. In small script, a sentence above the picture. "Good one," he growled. Dark, tangled eyebrows jumped twice. "The wife will love it." He'll detract his exit and crossed to Miranda. "I missed that one. Know the caption?" Miranda rang up a plate. "Education through humor. What does a salmon say when it hits a wall?" Not funny.

Hildy sidestepped a customer and drifted into the hallway. No Luke near the kiln or wheel either, or she eyed the lightless gap under the restroom door in there. The dancing would start at 7. "We can watch, right? Come with me?" he'd asked. Why had she agreed? By morning, she'd wavered. "Changed my mind." She almost texted at noon. "Should have," though clumsy, Dad had taught her and test the patterns, the calls. He'd grinned ear to ear when they executed them flawlessly with others at the dance hall, the last time in her 14th summer. The next year, he was gone, and she hadn't stepped foot in that hall since. How could she watch?

Through the back door, she spotted Luke throwing rocks in the river like a 10-year-old. She leaned against the building, then bent for a clover she'd press in her diary to hold in her mind this sloped light, the sparkling river, and him there on the bank playing. When had she last done anything of the sort, Luke? Her "I can't" and "I won't" poised to leap.

"Hey, there's salmon I like." He crossed the 20 ft between them with hands lifted in greeting, a smile stretched to his ears. He aimed a thumb at the dance hall. "You know, I've always wondered about that place. How about a tour before the show starts?"

"Luke, I jumping the gun again, aren't I? How about a bite at the store first?" Warmth rode her shoulders when she looked at him. How could she say no?

After burgers, they walked the highway to the river. Midbridge, Luke propped elbows on the rail. Two boys cast lines between the abutments below. Thin filaments from their reels caught sun and floated the air like spiderw webs before they landed. Luke bobbed his head as if to music. "I fell in love with fish doing that."

"In love with fish?" Could he startle her more? Had she heard anyone say that other than herself? Even at work, where fish were the bedrock of careers, her colleagues never talked about loving them. They teased her for saying as much. She gazed at the water, whispered, "I think I was five when I fell in love with salmonids. Caught cocon fingerlings one spring with a tadpole net. They were so beautiful, I named them, hold them around in a jar." But that didn't end well. Dad saw them by my bed when he tucked me in. In the morning, we walked to the creek to let them go. Pretty sure I cried."

"Your dad, you two were close. Being home again reminds me. I hear him all over the place. See him? Search teams, hikers, rangers. They never found him. 19 years since he disappeared and nothing. Dad didn't say what trail he'd take. None of us knew where to look. He" Her throat squeezed, pinched her words.

"What?"

"He loved the mountains. Hiked a lot. If he didn't tell one of us where he was heading, he always left a note. But that time when he vanished, I was away on a school science trip to California. Tess was living in Seeiku with Bingo and baby Joel. Mom said he left in the morning. When he didn't show after dark, she checked his gear. His overnight pack was gone, so she didn't worry. But not until the next night. Not like him to stay gone when campers were coming in."

Luke propped on an elbow and faced her frowning. "He didn't tell her."

"They"

"He what?"

"Mom was pretty hard on him. He took off sometimes to clear the air. Didn't like to fight with her."

Luke nodded and sent his gaze to the river. "I'm sorry." The memory dropped lead in her gut and the awful story grew monstrous. Needed telling like Luke's did that day at the falls. "He'd been gone two days when mom reported him missing. I got home that afternoon to search and rescue teams, neighbors and volunteers coming, going, marking trails and quadrants on a wall map they hung at the store. They couldn't tell which direction he'd gone after he crossed the highway, though, so it was anybody's guess."

She was talking too much, saying too much. "Those mountains, Luke, this valley, they swallow things. People." A throaty rumble. Harley's growling interrupted as they passed on the bridge. Three, four, five. Her shaking hands, Luke's scowl. Her toes scuffed the concrete barrier rail as she peered over the edge and let her sighteline run with a current. After they'd halted the search for her dad, she had jumped from this bridge every day for weeks. 25 ft of air to the fishing hole to water that closed over her head and dulled her senses with snow melt. "I can't keep talking about this."

She resumed walking and Luke fell into step beside her. When his hand clasped hers, she didn't shrink. He'd been underwater before. He knew how it felt. Across the river, shouts and laughter rode the low smoke from campfires. Hoots erupted when a tossed horseshoe rang metal. Luke and Tildy turned from the highway into the meadow to sense and sounds of dinner picnics and cornhole toss, dogs and robins, and the splashes and chatter of waiters in shallows. Hands clapped time to a harmonica. "Getting primed for tonight, sounds like," Luke said. Ahead, the hall squatted at the field's far end, and a VW van with Oregon plates rolled toward the woods behind it. "That dance floor is going to rock."

"He doesn't know the half of it." At the south wall, Luke tried the door, peered in a window. "Guess we'll have to wait." Otis rounded the corner. Startled, his voice hitched. "Progress, you coming here, Hildy girl?" He waved at Luke before he hurried on. "Side doors open." Luke followed Hildy down the back hallway, past doors to the store room and bathrooms to where the familiar washed her. Windows lining three ballroom walls, the dropped ceiling, and its fluorescent bulbs. for when those windows weren't enough. Hildy watched a woman carry pictures from the kitchen to a table under an 80s stereo speaker hung in a corner. On the stage, a rangy, sunspotted old man in a blue neckerchief and plaid shirt stood at a table and sorted vinyl 45s beside a portable record player.

"No way. Is that what I think it is?" The man heard Luke saluted. "It is," Hildy said. "And that's Clarence. I bet that's the same turntable he had when I was little. Old school. How great is that?" He eyed her cautiously. "Didn't you want to learn to dance?"

"Oh, I learned, Luke. Dad couldn't keep time, but he taught us the steps." She knew every call anyone could throw at her. Tess and I filled in wherever groups had odd counts.

"But you said I said I don't dance anymore."

She sighed. "Without dad, it stopped being fun. Tonight's the first time I've been in here since he went missing. Because she cried at the mere thought of dancing. Might cry again when the music started."

"Wish I knew these dances. Maybe we could find that fun for you again."

"About as likely as my getting you in a boat again to land a big chinook."

"Touche Hildy. No going back, Luke. Losses like ours kill joy, shrink us. They don't have to. Not permanently, anyway. You ever learn that verse about restoring the years the Locust seat?"

She shook her head. "It's coming true for me. I'll send it to you."

The old man left the stage, unlocked the double front doors, and snapped the wrist holding a 4-in cowbell. Outside, heads swiveled, dancers whooped, RV doors and tent flaps opened and unzipped. Luke was grinning. "Oh yeah, here they come." He grabbed Hildy's hand and pulled her to a row of folding chairs along a wall. In twos and fours, then a steady stream they barged in. Men, their hair banded or parted or smoothed or oiled off foreheads, wore kirchiefs rolled and knotted at the neck or sterling clasped bolo ties at collars of western shirts, embroidered or painted or woven. shirts in every color of paisley's and plaids and solids, the snaps on plackets and cuffs pearlized or metal. Tidy ironed shirts differentially tucked into belted jeans or slacks or pleated trousers, and at the hems of those pants, boots or oxfords or loafers, all with slick leather soles to keep dancers footwork nimble. Luke elbowed her, spread a finger and thumb from the filtrum below his nose past the bearded corners of his mouth. "Oh yes, and the men wore mustaches, chevron and dolli, lampshade and pencil, walrus, toothbrush and curled waxed handlebars, and on their men's arms or trailing or clucking and flitting ahead of their partners, the women in full plumage."

She had forgotten how, as a child, she'd held her breath at the female dancer's first flamboyant surge into the hall, how she'd studied the flowers and swirls and buffalo checks on those full fabric skirts tenting over layers of petticoats, how the dancers sleeves ballooned and fluttered. At age six, she'd begged to copy them until finally she fluffed new pett coats under a daisy skirt that puffed her into a bell ich. Dad said when she tried it on. She and Tess had twirled on the lawn by the river until they collapsed giggling in their fancy new dresses. Dizzied from their spinning flight.

The elderly caller made a show of dawning a blazer, and when he seated a cowboy hat, the crowd whooped and stomped. He stepped to the microphone as 96 dancers clapped, standing ready, two to a side, four couples in each of 12 squares spanning the polished floor. volume up. Black speakers crackled loud in the seconds before he lifted the tone arm, set the stylus on the spinning disc, and began to sing. As if moved by a giant hand, the kaleidoscope of humans pivoted and swerved, wo and twirled like fish, thought, schooling, synchronized, shifting directions, flashing colored scales. Her eyes grew wet. "A right and left around the ring while the roosters crow and the birdies sing." Luke threw himself back in his chair, mouth a jar. Clearly delighted, he elbowed Hildy, clapped and toetapped to the easy rolling rhythm of the caller and dancers and fluid squares. "All join hands and circle wide, spread right out like an old cowhide." The music, the happy crowd. She stole glances at the man beside her, laughing, clapping. How would she write this when she got home? She tasted the descriptions that crossed her tongue, landed on Mary. She caught herself tapping her foot, arrested it, looked around, and leaned to Luke's ear. "He's big on Patter. Huh? Patter. His color talk like a sports guy. The roosters and cows. The play in it all."

Gray-haired women with wrinkles no iron could smooth wore the flounces of girlhood in calico and red petty pants that peaked when they whirled. Fretweary mothers on getaways and career women with spreadsheet faces joined clerks and hair stylists and pharmacists. Their other worlds molted away on their drives here and in those RVs and tents from which they emerged as the birds of American folk dancing, flitting, flying. "Box the nat. Alamand left, slipped the clutch, stepped to a wave." More calls, more steps, until Hildy forgot she couldn't be there without hurting, and allowed the man beside her clapping and tapping, the silly, happy women in their silly, beautiful dresses, and the courteous, caring men to sweep her into forgetfulness that she didn't mind at all. "Corn in the crib and wheat in the sack. Meet your partner and turn right back." On the turn, a jiggly, flush-faced woman wrenched, yelped, tipped, and sagged into her raw boned partner. In a flash, couples in the square cinched around her like a purse string and helped her to a chair. While her man removed her shoe, a woman hurried to the kitchen, reappeared with ice. "Her ankle," Luke said. The dancing went on. On a difficult combo of calls, two groups lost step and folded, their underarms and brows ringed damp. "I'll go home now," Clarence called. Dancers returned to their start points to await instruction, but the caller raised the tone arm from the vinyl. "Now help yourself to some of those delicacies Mary set out for y'all over there. She's got cookies, juice, water." The crowd hummed like bees, then swarmed to refreshments and restrooms. A brush whiskered man stroed to them. "Well, little Nibbo, all grown up. Good to see you again. Thought we'd lost you and your dad." Liy scrambled to place him as the injured woman propped her foot on a chair. "She's out of commission, he said. Don't think it's broke, but we'll need another couple. You two game?" Bit her lip. Luke's gaze questioned her before he replied. "I'm game, but I couldn't follow all that if you paid me." The man howled, "Well, if that ain't torture, what were you thinking, Hildy? Bringing him here without teaching him?" Hildy felt herself blush. Luke intercepted. "my doing. I dragged her here. This girl knows the ropes. Have her give you a lesson and come back tomorrow. Old Clarence will call basics every night running. Good for beginners, too. Thanks." Luke patted Hildy's knee. "I'll see if I can talk her into it." Hildy looked behind the man, then toward the restroom as fear arrived from nowhere. "Excuse me a minute." There would be no dancing for her.

Chapter 21. Luke Sache.

The men watched Hildy hurry toward the restroom before the mustache turned to Luke. "Or you could come back in the morning for a lesson. We'll get you up and running so you don't step on that pretty girl's feet."

"Lessons?" Luke's eyes lit. "At 8 to 10 the next two mornings right here. Come to both and we'll have you twirling that girl with the group by Sunday night."

"I'll be there." Luke said he'd do his part. Getting Hildy to join him was another question. He snagged two cookies from the table, ate one, and intercepted her at the hallway. He wagged the second oatmeal wonder under her nose. "This will make you want to dance." A glower had replaced her ease. "I'm leaving." Her words pricked him, but he held steady, wouldn't react. He'd guessed coming here would challenge her, but he had hoped he could pull her through. "I'm with you. Let's get out of here," Luke said. Released, she darted from him, wo past dancers regrouping into squares, and shot through the double doors.

He caught up with her on the lane. He thought about pretending nothing had shifted in her, as he had other times clouds like these scutted in those mysterious eyes of hers. A chess game, this relationship. He could call it a relationship now, couldn't he? And however tentative, hadn't they reached new squares on the board? Could he bump her, ask and get an answer? It depended. Was the piece she held back a pawn or her queen? He needed to know.

"Hildy." He touched her arm, but she walked on as if he weren't there. "Hildy," he said again, then stopped. Hands at his sides, he stood in the gravel lane and watched her walk through failing daylight to the highway. While new calls and the shuffle of lively feet thrum through the hall's open doors, she crossed the Elwa Bridge. He followed, but she'd evaporated into the campground when he reached it. Fair enough. He'd leave quietly. Let her be. Maybe he'd been playing God, cocked sure of his ability to reach into that broken heart of hers and glue it back together. Maybe Bingo had been right.

But when he clicked the key fob to unlock his truck, the blink of his parking lights lit a crouched figure. Oldie between his bumper and the trunk of a high limb fur sniffling. Wet runnels on her cheeks shown in the flashes. "I'm no good at this, Luke. I don't know how." Her sob hitched. Pained, he sank hands into his pocket so he wouldn't reach for her. sensed her impending bolt if he came any closer, though he suspected touch was exactly what she needed most.

"Takes time for people to get to know each other, Hildy."

"No, Luke, you don't get it. There's something wrong with me. Sometimes anxiety flat out blindsides me. Tonight, you and I are sitting there and I'm actually enjoying myself. Then that guy comes over and within seconds, I can't breathe. Logically, I think one thing, but my body reacts. Luke frowned. If I'm within a half mile of this resort, I can't trust myself to stay calm for a stupid hour, and I start seeing things nobody else does."

Was she delusional? He moved toward her cautiously. "Hildy, I want to hear more. But first, I'd like to wrap my arms around you and hold you. Hear you tell me more while I keep you safe. Is that all right with you?" She stared at him wideeyed and got to her feet. At her tiny nod, he eased within reach of her and, as if catching a fluttering, wounded finch, encircled her in the perimeter of his arms until his hands hovered behind her. Gently, so gently, he placed his palms on her shoulder blades before he pulled her toward him. She dropped her head, rested her brow in the curve where his neck met his shoulder. Was it 2 minutes he held her like that? 20? He didn't know. Didn't care. as he rocked her, felt her sink into him and settle. His mind raced while he pressed his cheek to her hair and felt her chest expand and contract with each stuttered breath. His shirt absorbed tears. "Hey," he lifted her chin with a thumb. In the dim, their eyes met before she closed hers and pivoted. He gripped her shoulder and held her against him, their sides a long seam.

"about these things you see." She wiped at his damp shoulder, then her cheeks and nose. Her words came slowly. "They're more like sensations with shifting shapes and textures. I don't really see them, but they feel dark like shadows. When I was little, one followed my mother around sometimes in the boat at church. They come out of death wrecks on our corner, too. I really noticed them after I turned nine." She pressed her temples. "Then I didn't see any for a long time. I thought they were gone. Hoped they were gone. But when a van crashed the summer before I left home, there they were again. Last winter, two more came off my dead uncle's truck." The back of his neck pricricked. "Keep talking, sweetheart."

"Tonight, there was one trailing that guy who talked to us." Luke stared into the gathering dark. "What changed when you were nine?" Her laugh was humorless. "Otis says Holy Light moved into me then. Moved into you when at church. The preacher said the comforter would shrink my worries and be my bodyguard if I trusted and asked. First time I'd really listened when he made that offer. All those verses began to make sense. I was too shy to go up front, but I took him up on it anyway." She shuddered under his arm. "Sounds wacky, right?"

"You ever talk to that preacher about those shadows?"

She shook her head. "Only to Otis. But I know he told Juny. Why didn't you tell her?"

"I just didn't. Only reason I told Otis was because we went to help after that van hit the bridge and three of those things flew straight toward me. Almost scared me to death. He tells me they're lie makers from the pit of hell, but I don't know." She exhaled through puffed cheeks. "I've spent the better part of my life hiding the fact that I'm crazy, Luke. Crazy. If people knew what goes on in my head, I'd lose what little credibility I have and my job most likely. I may be scaring you off, too. But it's for the best, I guess. Why waste any more of your time? Why do you think? But my job, I live for that job. Doing what I do, helping those beautiful fish makes me think even Nutso Hildy has some value somewhere." she hiccuped. "If I lost my work, I'd lose hope. Those rivers, the salmon," she was whispering now, her eyes grown enormous. "I get to take part in the wonder of them right alongside. God." She clapped a hand over her mouth as if she'd revealed another secret. "At least I never see those things outside of this valley."

"Who said you were crazy, Hildy? No exaggeration on Bingo's part. She seemed convinced. Otis said, 'I see dark spirits, Luke.'" Luke shrugged. "I've known Otis a long time. I bet he doesn't equate seeing spirits with being crazy. Doesn't matter. Who sees spirits unless they're whacked? People can sense the unseen without being mentally ill."

Hildy. In his own dark season, he'd felt them himself. Kurt, his neighbor and pastor, said those liars were everywhere. She straightened, raised her voice. "Well, there's more. How about this doubter man? All through my growing up years, I lost things. Forgot where I put them. Not only that, I'd recall an event I absolutely believed was true, only to be told otherwise. And when I'd hear what actually occurred, I couldn't, for the life of me, find that sequence of events anywhere, anywhere in my memory. Where is this going?" He slowed his breathing, hoped she'd subconsciously match the pace. "It didn't just happen once, Luke. It was the story of my childhood over and over and over. I realized I wasn't trustworthy, even to myself. But who? Those shadows could be legit. But this forgetfulness, what in the world was that? Then dad got lost, too. And nobody could find him. My daddy. I was so desperate I decided to take his truck, drive to Seattle, and well, maybe live with the family of a girl I met on that math science trip right before he died. Anything to escape to go where everything didn't remind me of him."

"Can't say I blame you for that."

"I asked mom for the keys, told her I was going to the library in Port Angeles. I'd lost so many things she didn't trust me one bit. So, when I grabbed my purse, she asked if I had my license. Of course, I had my license. I'd had it for a month safe in my wallet. That license meant freedom. You remember that feeling?" She snatched a breath, lost in her story. "I do like having wings." Small nods. She exhaled through her mouth. "Mom held the keys, waiting for me to show her, but I couldn't show her, Luke, because my license wasn't in my wallet. I even lost my brand new driver's license, and my mind was an absolute blank as to where. Did you ever?"

"No, I never found it."

"After that, concentration on my schoolwork was my only escape. No crazies, just details, formula, and facts, which unlike everything in the rest of my world, I could recall perfectly. I held on to God by a string, but I couldn't feel him." He knew about that. Knew God did the holding. Her trembling grew more pronounced, and he gripped her tighter. "I learned to dive so deeply into my studies to compartmentalize and concentrate so hard I could have long stretches of clear-mindedness full weeks even a month once without any confusion or anxiety at all. Then my freshman year of college ended badly and both returned with a vengeance. After that when I wasn't working I stayed home mostly where I developed tricks to help store my days to help me remember my life. Not seeing the shadows helped too. They didn't follow me to Seattle." She sniffled, swiped at her nose. "But now I'm here on the river again. The shadows are back and my agitation's worse. Half the time I'm home, my palms are sweaty or I breathe like I'm at high altitude. My heart pounds harder than it has in years." She turned to face him straight on. "Otis thinks some liemaker's got his finger in the pie of my life, but I sure don't know what that lie could be." Her breath seized, and she looked at him. "I dare you to tell me I'm not losing it, Luke Rimemer."

He ran two fingers along the braid pinned to her head, one down her nose. "Was Otis onto something. A lie, huh?" He thought of a game he and Miranda played when they were kids. She'd hide a button in the woods and direct him to it with temperature readings. He could still hear her. "You're warmer, Lukey. No. Colder. Cold. Warmer. Warmer." Hild's symptoms were worse here, and the shadows, at least ones she could see, were only here in the valley. If the lie were a button, was she closer to uncovering it in the Elwa?

"Who diagnosed you, Hildy? Who said you were crazy besides you? That actual word?" She scrunched an eye. "Nobody needed to." He hugged her again. "That nobody is wrong. Come morning,"

Luke rounded the curve and glanced at the bustling store and studio before he crossed the bridge and parked by the dance hall. A half hour early, he brushed bakery muffin crumbs from jeans and tea, swigged the last of his coffee, and bent to double knot leather sold chucka boots. At the hall's side door, he wrote a long text to Hildy, then erased most of it. Instead, he tapped a brief one. "That locust verse I promised to send you, different version. I will give you back what you lost. And on its heels, a second hanging from noon until dark tonight. Thinking of you."

Inside he sat a few chairs away from a lean compact man flanked by pre-teen twin girls baiting him with spelling words. "Insucience." "Dad." The girl closest to Luke pronounced slowly. Her sister giggled. The man hunched, cocked arms, and jutted his chin. "Vulture squawkked. Insue chance. Daddy." The asker rolled her full moon eyes. Her sister zeroed in on Luke. "I bet he knows." Luke raised hands, palms out, and thought of his little Quinn when he quizzed her spelling after homeschool in the day's catch. How she'd already loved books, loved words like he did. In his mind, he kissed the memory. Then he spelled the twins word as fast as he could spit letters. "Told you." One girl elbowed the other. The pair was standing now. He couldn't say which one had asked. Two more couples crept inside as the previous night's caller carried the record player to the stage and plugged it in. "A good Saturday morning to you intrepid souls," Clarence crowed. "Come on over. Eight of you is exactly right, especially considering my fill-in wife's still in our trailer sipping coffee. A fill-in for lesson squares, not the other." He chuckled, rolled a wrist to his watch face. "On time, too. Eight straight up. You ready? If we're going to jam a course worth of learning into two two-hour sessions. Let's go home." Turned out that go home meant the same as in the Monopoly game. Start over. Next came circle left. The twins rolled eyes at the obvious, then made short work of alamand left and dosey-do. The second hour all faced each other and alternated hands through right and left grand prominade and swing and disintegrated into hysterics when Clarence set their new moves to music and they tripped, collided. Men and kids high-fived four rounds later when at last they nailed a set. "your quick studies, Alia." Clarence propped doors and admitted the waiting, experienced crowd dressed in day two's getups. He turned back to the learners. "After tomorrow, you'll be dancing with the big kids."

"Spell prominade, Dad." Twin Lacy said.

Afterward, Luke spotted his sister when he drove the bridge to cabin 1's crowded lot. Miranda pulled a box from her car, hitched it to her hip, and waited while he double parked behind her. "Here, Mir, I've got it." He pecked her cheek, emptied her arms. "Where have you been?" She eyed his truck cab. "And all by your lonesome?"

"You won't believe it." She hoisted another box from her tailgate and followed him into the studio. "Try me." He lowered the box behind her counter and scanned shelves. "You got any bolo ties tucked away anywhere?"

"You're not."

"Took a lesson from a master today. More tomorrow morning. Hoping Hildy will join me for the Sunday night finale."

"You're a dreamer, Luke."

"You told me."

"Yeah. Well, last night she might. Either way, it's a hoot. You know, dancing and mess." She laughed, dodged a customer to pinch his cheeks. "I'm so glad. I thought you'd lost that, too."

"You're not the only one." He eyed her car's open hatch through the window and looked at the sky. "I'll close your rig, then I've got to run. I'm making hay today. Neighbors bailing around dinner time, so we'll be buckling bales till dark." She walked him outside. "Look at you, farmer boy. Supposed to rain like crazy here tonight. Bet you won't get a drizzle out there in dryland."

"That was the idea. Buying that place, remember? Didn't need a sky full of tears, too. If you see Hildy, let me tell her about" He swung an invisible partner and grinned. "A fragrant first cutting."

Sunday morning, Luke stopped at the field on his way out, pulled dewy hay from a broken bale, and tossed it past barbed wire to jangles. The cow's horns seessawed as the animal swiped a tongue, and lifted a drape of drying grass from the well- drained ground. No clay, no mud. Luke reached, rubbed the animals smooth, wet nose. The mighty head tracked him as he walked to his truck.

Driving west through the valley's farms, he eyed the clear, bright sky. This place, it had taken some getting used to, all right, sunshine 300 days a year and 16 in of rain. Not 70 m away, seek you topped 100. Even at half that distance, Mirzy at Lake Southerntherland and Hildy at the Elwa both expected 60. Some years West Enders didn't see the sun for months. Moody light, angry clouds, and near daily sullen rain. Just the way things were growing up out there and afterward for him, for Eden, for their girls until, well, he hadn't needed abusive weather reinforcing his own storms. Though he didn't feel shadows as Hildy described them, he'd known a few out there, along with suffering's dark cloak and bone chilling cold. Had he stayed at the west end, the weather might have finished his undoing. Boats, sea, maritime gloom, he'd said goodbye to all of them in favor of this landbound fresh start. All things new, he was working on it. At least now he had tools and help.

He drove 10 miles, 15, and as the Olympics rain shadow retreated behind him, clouds thickened, curdled, and started to spit. At the outskirts of Port Angeles, he flicked windshield wipers on low and felt wind buffet his truck. By the time he rounded the Elwa Hills curve, trees bowed to the heavy blow. The wiper rubber blades wpped like a terrier's tail. A dog? Maybe I should get a dog. He peered through the glass. A bedraggled couple hurried into the store where two more huddled under the gas pump awning. In the storm's false twilight, lights dotted RV's windows as water sheetated from the roofs of cabins and trailers. Gusts billowed and collapsed tents, sent ripples down the puddles and river, and frothed the lake into a white capped frenzy. Cross river campers rolled soggy gear and shoved it into car trunks. A departing pickup slowed at Luke's approach, and the smiling, wet-headed driver dropped his window. Two more rigs tailed him. "No quitting for you, right?" The middle-aged man brushed a drip from his nose. Beside him, a petite woman wiped condensation from her side window. "Us either." He glanced past his shoulder at the vehicles behind him. "If you see Clarence or Otis, tell them us tentters are hunting motel in Port Angeles. Tell them we'll be here with bells on tonight, though."